


Harry's Lie

by Boyvoids



Series: Fighting Fire [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Illness, Mentor Severus Snape, No character bashing, Panic Attacks, Possession, Trans Harry Potter, Trans Luna Lovegood, albus dumbledore is manipulative but that's just canon, can stand alone or as a prequel for Fighting Fire, harry doesnt know how to trust adults but he's trying, pretty much everyone important is gay or trans, sirius is understandably mentally fucked but doing his best, voldemort fucks shit up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 86,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18564310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boyvoids/pseuds/Boyvoids
Summary: Harry's trans and no one in the wizarding world seems to know. When he got his letter, he was stunned to see the right name on the address. When he got to Hogwarts, everyone knew his name. They called him the Boy Who Lived as if he always had been. No one had any idea that his whole life was a lie. He thought he'd gotten away with it--until the summer before third year, when everything went batshit crazy and stopped making any sense at all.This is a story about keeping secrets and telling lies, but it is also about finding truths and discovering trust in the most unlikely of places. Set during Harry's third year.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry hadn’t _meant_ to lie to the entire Wizarding world. Really. It had been an accident.

It started with his letter. His Hogwarts letter. His official letter from an official school that somehow knew where he was—exactly where he was, under the stairs of Number 4—and, even more shocking, it also knew his name. No one had known his name before that, except him of course. He’d found it in a school book: _Harry_. And he’d fallen in love.

Everyone else called him a different name. Well, most of the time the Dursleys just called him “girl” or “hey, you.” He’d never told anyone that his name was actually Harry, only whispered it softly to himself at night, a soothing mantra when he woke up from a nightmare, usually involving a blinding green light and a distant, echoing scream.

So when he got his Hogwarts letter, he was stunned. So stunned that, instead of bringing it to the kitchen with the rest of the mail, he slipped it through the slot of the cupboard door, determined to save this one piece of paper that said his name. It was like a fantastic sort of dream—someone knew he was a boy? Somewhere, someplace, he could actually be Harry?

“Hurry up, girl!” his uncle had called, and the dream was shattered instantly. He forced it back into the corners of his thoughts and hurried into the kitchen. “Coming, Uncle Vernon.”

 ↠

All his life, people had thought he was a girl. But as he grew up, short and skinny and stunted under the stairs, he realized that he wasn’t. It was simple enough: one morning, when he was four or five, he caught a glimpse of the telly Dudley was watching and saw an advert for a new lightsaber toy. “Coo-ool,” he said, the word slipping from his mouth before he could catch it.

“Shove off,” Dudley yelled. “ _Star Wars_ is for boys, not girls.” And then, when Harry just looked at him, he yelled, “Muuuum! She’s watching telly and won’t leave me alone!”

Harry scampered before Aunt Petunia could come with the frying pan. But that night, he realized that he still liked _Star Wars,_ even though Dudley said it was supposed to be for boys. He’d never seen it, of course, but the telly made it look so cool, so daring. He imagined himself like Luke Skywalker, fighting against Darth Vader. In the yard the next day, he picked a branch from the grass as he was doing his chores and began swinging it around, making the whish noises with his mouth, pretending he was in a brave fight with the Dark Side. When Aunt Petunia saw him through the window, she shrieked. “What are you doing? Drop that at once!” she yelled, grabbing his wrist tightly and dragging him back into the house.

“What sort of nonsense are you getting at?” she said. “Magic isn’t real!”

“I know it’s not,” Harry said. “I was trying to be Star Wars.” But she didn’t listen to him. She slammed him into his cupboard, and in the darkness, he held his sore wrist and thought, _why would she think I was playing magic?_

He stayed in his cupboard for the rest of the day until she let him out to pee and help with dinner. “Girls don’t play outside like that,” she said sharply, refusing to look at him as he helped chop the vegetables. “You will not do that again.”

He nodded, and said “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” but in his head he held the truth triumphantly, a lightsaber against the rest of the world, and thought, _I am not a girl._

 ↠

Over the years, Aunt Petunia started to notice. His hair never grew past his shoulders, even though she never trimmed it. People on the street—the rare occasions he was out with the family—would compliment her two sons and call him a “little gentleman.” At the beginning of school, the teachers got confused when they called roll and he answered to a girl’s name.

When he was younger, she just gave him Dudley’s old clothes, massive and worn, but after a while she got angry. “She looks too much like a boy, Vernon,” she told his Uncle. “What will the neighbors think?” And so Uncle Vernon let Aunt Petunia take him to the mall, after threatening him that if he did anything, any funny business, he’d be in his cupboard for a month.

Aunt Petunia took him into the girl’s sections of the stores, but when she asked for help the assistants would turn to Harry and ask, “Are you buying your sister a present?” And when his Aunt snapped at them that no, the clothes were for him, they were confused. “The boy’s section is to the left, ma’am,” they would say politely, and she would yell and shriek and pull him out of the store, pulled him into the next one. Eventually, she gave up asking for help, grabbed a few skirts, dresses, and blouses—all in hideous pinks and lavenders that made Harry cringe—and stormed from the mall, Harry in tow.

She tried to make him wear the new clothes, but every time he put them on they shrank. Eventually, they were so small they couldn’t fit over his head, and Aunt Petunia, infuriated, threw them in the bin. Uncle Vernon refused to let her spend any more money on him, so he continued to wear Dudley’s cast-offs.

In the bathroom, he would look in the mirror and try to judge his face. If someone saw him for the first time, would they think he was a girl? He couldn’t see any way. His hair was short, black and messy, and his face was thin and pointy. Nothing about him said “girl.” He would smile to himself, at his little secret.

Really, he hadn’t meant to lie to everyone. But when Hagrid came to the hut on the rocks and called him Harry, when he looked at him and saw nothing but a boy, Harry didn’t bother correcting him. He didn’t know how or why everyone who did magic thought he was a boy, but he was, and they did, and when he saw Hagrid’s squashed, lumpy cake that said “Harry” on it, he nearly cried.

“Cor, you never got a cake b’fore?” Hagrid asked, clapping him on the back with his heavy hand, and Harry shook his head numbly, a solid lump in his throat.

And when he got to Hogwarts, no one seemed to know any different. As he waited for the Sorting Hat to call his name, his hands shook. _Now everyone will know,_ he thought. He wondered if Ron, the nice boy from the train, would still be his friend. Would anyone? Certainly not Draco, the blond prick he’d met at Madame Malkins. When the Sorting Hat called him it called, “Potter, Harry,” in his shock of relief he forgot for a moment what he was supposed to do. Placed on his head, the Hat laughed to see his thoughts. _Your secret’s safe with me_ , _Mr. Potter,_ the hat said. _Your magical core tells me who you are._ Harry didn’t really know what that meant but gave a small smile. _Quite brave, aren’t you? To be who you are?_ the Hat asked, and before he could reply the Hat loudly declared, “Gryffindor!” He trotted quickly to the red and gold table where Ron waited for him, beaming.

So no one knew, and it was perfect—unless you count things like Voldemort hiding under his professor’s turban and great big basilisks trying to kill his friends. It was perfect, that is, until the summer before his third year. Because, one sweltering July morning, after he stumbled from a bad dream to the bathroom, he found—to his absolute shock and horror—that he was bleeding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry deals with his first signs of puberty. Aunt Marge pays a visit.

“Are you done in there? Hurry up,” Dudley yelled, beating his hand on the bathroom door. _Shit,_ Harry thought. Staring at the blood in the toilet, his heart sank to his toes. What was he going to do?

Diving to the cabinets below the sink, he found some of Aunt Petunia’s stuff and grab a pad because it looked a lot safer than a tampon. He wasn’t even sure where that went. 

Panicked, pale-faced, and shaking, Harry flushed and crammed the wrapper into this pocket to throw away in the garbage can, where no one would see it. He slipped out the door and Dudley barreled in. “Took you long enough, freak.”

In his bedroom, Harry shook. What was he going to do? This wasn’t supposed to happen. Everyone thought he was a boy. After Hagrid told him about accidental magic, he figured that must have been why everyone saw him as a boy; he had wanted it hard enough, and his magic had done the work for him. The Sorting Hat had told him something similar, right? Something about his magical core… so why was this happening? If everyone thought he was a boy, shouldn’t he be? He felt queasy, a tightness growing in his stomach and his throat. Would Aunt Petunia notice when her supplies depleted? When he went back to Hogwarts would everyone be able to tell? Would he have to room in the girl’s dorms with Hermione? Would Draco find out and make fun of him? Would everyone be upset that he had lied to them? Would they stop liking him? _Shit. Shit, shit, shit_. He couldn’t breathe.

Hedwig hooted softly and tapped her claw against the frame of the cage. Jolted from his panic, Harry took a stuttering breath. When Hedwig hooted again, he breathed again, this time a bit deeper. She watched him with her bright yellow eyes as he calmed himself. His hands had been curled into tight balls, straining, and they were red and clammy as he relaxed them.

“Thanks, girl,” he whispered, and the owl ducked her head to clean her feathers as if to say, _it was nothing_.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Aunt Petunia yelled at him for coming downstairs late—he had kept checking in the mirror to see if anyone could see the pad through Dudley’s old sweatpants—and he didn’t get anything for breakfast. Uncle Vernon was out golfing with some business partner, Dudley was out wreaking havoc with Piers and his gang, and Aunt Petunia was going to meet some friends. Before she left, she handed him a list of chores.

“If you finish that, stay in your room until we get back. Don’t go looking in the fridge; there’s nothing for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he muttered, too distracted by his panic to even worry about not eating all day. He finished his chores relatively quickly—mopping the kitchen tile, weeding the garden beds, trimming the front hedges, and dusting all the surfaces in the house—and lay morosely on his bed, the window cracked so a thin breeze could waft through. He thought about writing Ron a letter. What would he say? _Hey, Ron, sorry I never told you but actually I’m a girl and will you please still be my friend? And also come help because I have no idea what to do?_ That would never work. Ron would think he was having him on—and even if he did believe him, Ron was clueless about practically anything involving girls.

He could write Hermione. She would understand a bit more, he thought. But he could imagine her letter all too well. _Oh, Harry, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! Before Hogwarts I read all about trans people and they’re quite fascinating; here’s twelve books I found talking about how being trans is a mental disorder that you can fix! I can’t believe you never told me, Harry, why didn’t you trust me?_

Okay, she’d probably be better than that. But it was just, just. Humiliating. Disgusting. No, it was better to keep it a secret, to keep lying. Surely they wouldn’t notice; it only happened once a month, so he could just hide it, right?

But then Harry remembered the other changes that could happen and jumped from his bed with a start. Hurrying to the mirror, he examined himself. Was his face getting rounder? More feminine? His lips looked pinker than normal, his eyes brighter. How hadn’t he noticed this before? His body felt—well, different. Wrong.

Fumbling with the collar of his shirt, he took it off and looked at his body. Was his chest slightly bigger than normal, or was he just paranoid? _No_ , he thought, _they’ve definitely grown._ They were soft, slightly round. _Shit._

Since starting at Hogwarts, Harry had felt confident in his body. At Hogwarts, away from the hands of Uncle Vernon and the dirt of Aunt Petunia's garden, his body grew clean and smooth, unbruised and unblemished, and he felt safe in it—it was his body, a boy’s body, even if the bottom looked slightly different. But now that safety was torn from him and he felt vulnerable, close to falling apart. It was like his skin had melted off him and now his bones were exposed. He was a _girl._

Panicked, Harry pulled the shirt back on. It was sweltering, but he found a sweatshirt in his closet and pulled that on, too. If no one could see his body, then no one would know the difference, right?

↠

When Marge came to visit, Harry was a full-blown mess. He’d asked Uncle Vernon to sign his Hogsmeade permission form, but he wouldn’t unless Harry behaved in front of Marge which was, well, impossible. Especially because it was bright and obvious to Marge that Harry was a girl, and she wouldn’t shut up about it.

“It’s a pity she’s ugly, Vernon. Petunia’s sister must not have been much,” she said over sherry one night.

“No,” Aunt Petunia sniffed, her eyes sharp on Harry. “And that Potter boy she married was absolutely repulsive.”

Harry’s hands clenched under the table. He started mentally reciting the broom care book Hermione had given him for his birthday, desperately trying to find a distraction from Marge.

“Right, girl, clean up the dishes, will you?” Uncle Vernon said, and Harry leapt at the opportunity to get away from the table.

“Now, why do you let her wear her hair like that? Surely she’d look better with longer hair, wouldn’t she?” Marge asked. “The sooner you can get her married off, the better, in my opinion. Here, Ripper!” She bent down with some table scraps for Ripper, who slobbered them from her hands.

“W-well, we try, don’t we dear?” Uncle Vernon said weakly, turning towards Aunt Petunia for help.

“The brat cuts it off herself. Insolent child,” she said. A weak excuse, in Harry's mind.

“Hmmph. I wouldn’t let that stand if I were you, Vernon,” Marge said tartly, smacking her lips from the sherry. “Excellent nosh, Petunia.”

Having taken the dishes from the table, Harry tried to escape up to his room where he could scream silently into his pillow, but Marge stopped him from edging past her with her arm.

“Now, now. That’s no way to behave in front of people who have fed you, clothed you, taken care of you with only charity and goodness in their hearts. Apologize, girl.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry ground out, “Sorry, Aunt Marge.”

“That’s right you are, insolent whelp.” Turning to Uncle Vernon, she said, “You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the girl’s turned out, Vernon. It’s one of the basic rules of breeding. You see it all the time with dogs. If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong with the pup—”

Suddenly, Aunt Marge’s voice cut off. She clutched her throat, rasping, eyes bulging. Harry’s nails were cutting into his palms.

“Marge, are you alright?” Aunt Petunia squealed. Aunt Marge coughed, choking. Uncle Vernon hit her back, and with a great gumph she regained her voice. “Oh yes,” she said. “Must’ve had some sherry down the wrong pipe, there.”

Aunt Petunia sighed in relief, but Uncle Vernon glared at Harry. Definitely not getting that permission form signed.

“As I was saying,” Aunt Marge continued, and Harry heard a dull ringing in his ears, the world blurring out from anger, “it sounds like that girl was a rotten egg, no class whatsoever. And to gallivant off with such a wastrel of a boy, that James Potter. Well, it’s no wonder this girl here is so wretched, is it?”

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. Aunt Marge’s glass shattered in her fist as he shook, furiously, in front of her. “I’m a boy,” he yelled. “I’m a boy. I’m not a girl, I’m a boy. And my parents were a damn sight better than any of you lot here.”

There was an instant uproar. Petunia had gone sheet white, stiff in her chair. Dudley was cackling, delighted that Harry had gone and "made herself a queer." Aunt Marge was sneering at him, sherry dripping from her hand, saying, “You think you’re a boy? Only idiots like your parents could breed such a mentally confused child.” And Uncle Vernon—Uncle Vernon had pushed himself from the table and heaved himself from the chair, and now towered over Harry.

With a fantastic crack, he slapped Harry across the face.

“I will not hear any of that nonsense from you anymore. Get out! Get out of this house and don’t come back!”

Harry pressed his palm to his face gingerly. He could feel his cheek swell already, rouged and raw from the force of Uncle Vernon’s hand.

“I—I have nowhere to go, Uncle Vernon,” he stuttered out.

“That’s none of my concern, freak. We’ll have nothing to do with your sort no more. Now get out, before I kick you out myself.”

Harry stumbled backwards, feet catching on the carpet. He tried to climb the stairs to get Hedwig and some of his stuff, but Uncle Vernon blocked him.

“OUT,” he roared. And so out he went, with nothing but his wand and his bruising face. “And don’t come back!” Uncle Vernon slammed the front door in his face. Harry heard the bolt slide into place. Slowly, numbly, in disbelief, he turned from the entrance to Number 4, Privet Drive, and faced the rest of Little Whinging.

Where would he go now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! I've never written fic before so if you have any suggestions/see anything wrong let me know ❤


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry panics, meets a dog, and boards a bus.

By the neighborhood playground, under a flickering lamplight with flitting moths and gnats, sat Harry Potter. It hadn’t been more than half an hour since the Dursleys had kicked him out, but with each passing minute Harry curled more into himself, panic raking through his body. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees and even though it was still pleasantly warm outside, goosebumps riddled his arms and legs. The night was a muted wash of black and purple. He had never felt more alone.

Harry had no idea what to do. He didn’t have his wand, he didn’t have Hedwig, he didn’t have anything. Could he sneak back into the house and grab his stuff? He didn’t think he could get through the front door, but maybe if he could somehow climb up to the window in his room… No, it would never work. Rocking back and forth, he lay his head on his knees and tried to breathe normally. In, out, in and out. It wasn’t working too well.

Something cold and wet brushed the side of his face, and Harry nearly toppled over. Next to him, seemingly from nowhere, was a giant dog, with long, matted black fur.

“Hey, boy,” Harry whispered, gently reaching his hand towards the dog’s head. “Where did you come from?”

The dog nuzzled into Harry’s hand, settling on its haunches to sit with him.

As Harry pet the dog, he found himself talking to it. Occasionally, it seemed like the dog was genuinely listening to him—dogs didn’t usually make that much eye contact, did they? He poured out everything that had happened that night, his body relaxing slightly with each confession.

“…They kicked me out, you know, and I mean, they’ve never been nice but I thought that, maybe, I guess, I thought Aunt Petunia wouldn’t let Uncle Dursley do that. I thought she’d let me stay. But she didn’t say anything, and now I’m here, and I don’t know what to do.” It came out in bursts, tumbling out of his mouth. “I don’t have my wand or anything, and even if I did it probably wouldn’t do me much good ‘cuz I’m not allowed to do magic—I guess you would use it as a stick to fetch, wouldn’t you, boy? But I don’t wanna be expelled but does it even matter, ‘cuz I don’t know how to talk to Dumbledore anyway, I don’t have Hedwig.”

The dog’s eyes looked, well, sad. Do dogs' eyes do that normally? It licked Harry’s cheek, and he laughed at the tickle of whiskers and the great, slobbering tongue. “Ewwww, boy! Settle down,” he said, and the dog lolled his tongue out in what, in humans, would have looked like a smile. “You’re a much better dog than I’ve ever met,” Harry said. “I only know Ripper, my aunt’s dog, and he’s awful. He bites me if I’m not careful, and once he chased me up a tree…”

Harry kept talking, on and on to the dog. Even though he was pouring his heart out to the dog, he still didn’t mention his greatest secret. Not even a dog was trustworthy enough to tell his secret to. As the night faded from purple to a sheer black, with pricks of stars blinking overhead, Harry relaxed until he was loose-limbed and halfway sleepy. As his body grew less tense, the dog barked and nudged him with a fervor.

“What is it, boy?” Harry asked. The dog kept barking, small, frantic yaps. Confused and a little alarmed, Harry stood up, his knees groaning from the hours of stiffness. Suddenly, the dog lifted itself onto its haunches and, using its front paws, pushed Harry off the ledge of the pavement. With a cry, Harry flung his arm out to catch himself on the road; his elbow thudded into the cement and instantly welled with pricks of blood. Before he could get off from the ground, there was a huge BANG. Gasping, he scrambled from the road as a massive, purple bus careened around the corner and came to a squealing stop in front of him.

The headlights were blinding, and Harry shielded his eyes as a side-door opened and a shadowy shape appeared in the entrance.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve—”

The shape—slowly resolving itself into a pimply young man as Harry’s eyes adjusted—stopped speaking, and looked down at Harry, only just realizing that he was on the ground.

“’Choo doin’ down there?” the man—Stan—asked.

“Er… I fell,” Harry said. “Hang on—did you see a dog?”

“Na,” Stan said. “No pets allowed unless given prior notice and properly sheltered,” he said, reading from a small notecard he pulled from his pocket. “Anyways, you want a ride, right?”

“Yes!” Harry said eagerly, thinking fast. “But, uh, I don’t have any money.” His elbow ached, and his mind was spinning with thoughts of the dog. Had it known this would happen? “Is there anyplace I could go for free?”

Stan looked at him suspiciously. “You never rode a bus b’fore? Dincha think about this ‘fore you stuck your wand ‘and out?”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I just… I don’t really know what else to do.”

“Hmph. Alright, kid, get on and I’ll talk to the driver, ‘kay?” As Harry scrambled eagerly off the ground, Stan asked, “What’dja say your name was?”

“Err, Dudley,” Harry said.

Inside, the bus everything was bright and warm. There was a strong scent of chocolate and burning rubber and his eyes watered at how vividly _purple_ everything was.

“Well, Dudley, this here’s the driver, Ernie,” Stan said. “Hey Ern, this kid’s got no money. I dunno what to do with ‘im.”

Ernie, an elderly man with thick spectacles, peered at Harry from the driver’s seat.

“You got any parents, kid?”

Harry’s mind whirled. “Uh, yeah,” he fumbled. “They’re in… uh, they’re in Hogsmeade. You know, the village by Hogwarts? They’re waiting for me there,” he finished weakly.

“The village by ‘ogwarts,” Stan chortled. “Here that, Ern? We never ‘eard of ‘ogwarts before, ‘ave we?” Ernie and Stan laughed, and Harry blushed, looking down at his dirt-scuffed trainers.

“Sure, Dudley,” Ernie said. “We’ve got another bloke stopping in Hogsmeade, so we’ll drop you off. Don’t want your parents to worry, now do we?”

“Er, no,” Harry muttered. “Thanks.”

Stan led him to a bed towards the back. “’Ere. You can sleep ‘ere for a bit. It’ll be a few hours, I’m guessin’.”

“Thanks. Thanks again,” Harry said, and climbed into the bed. It was thin and narrow, with lumpy pillows. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d be sleeping. His mind raced as he thought of what would happen once he got to Hogsmeade. Could he talk to Dumbledore? Could he find somewhere to stay for the rest of the summer, or would he have to go back to the Dursleys? Groaning, he curled up under one of the blankets and felt the jolt of the bus rumble beneath him.

With another BANG, the bus screeched from Little Whinging and disappeared into the night, not even leaving a single tire mark. In the shrubs by the playground, a dog with bright eyes and dark fur watched it go, before turning and disappearing into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes his way to Hogsmeade.

Aberforth had run the Hog’s Head for more than half a century, and he’d seen his fair share of visitors. Students, professors, yes, as well as run-of-the-mill criminals and vagabonds (Mundungus Fletcher, for one, whom he’d had to ban from the bar a few years prior after his cheating ‘bargains’ with other customers went awry and resulted in some unfortunate misfigurements). The Weasley twins had slipped in once, wee first years with wide eyes and cheeky grins. He’d thought his vision had doubled. Well, he scared ‘em off with some vague threats of goat transfiguration and never saw ‘em since then. Most kids—of legal age to visit Hogsmeade, that is—wouldn’t hesitate as they passed the dingy old bar. It was a dark, dim-looking thing, even from the outside, its sign worn and aged by years of disrepair. Its door was a stodgy brown wood, shadowed by an overhang. Generally, it was thoroughly unappealing to the younger crowds of the village, and a respite for the older ones, those stiff with joint aches and in need of something stiffer to liven them up.

His regulars—old, hobbled witches with fierce grimaces to match their untoward dispositions; grouchy wizards with potbellies and stains down their fronts; greedy goblins who ran tabs longer than the length of the village and gambled away the nights; and various assortments of other beings, elves and veelas and leprechauns and the occasional cheery half-giant—appreciated the refuge from the Hogwarts gaggles and gangs: not many places in Hogsmeade were so child-repellant, and so Aberforth was more than happy to shoo any lost student away from his door. He’d wondered more than once if Albus had something to do with it, perhaps a simple deflecting charm to keep children away—Aberforth had seen plenty of dangerous visitors here, after all, from petty thieves like Fletcher to Tom Riddle’s hateful gang of death eaters. Despicable, the lot of them. Better that the students stayed far away.

That night, though, a kid slipped under his radar.

It was late, far too late, already past midnight, but the Hog’s Head was still thriving. While dingy in the day, it was warm and boisterous at night, a hops-filled buzz flowing through the room. Sparks from the fireplace spit into the air and hovered, dancing, blinking out only when they reached the ceiling. Some drunkards were singing heartily, sloshing their beers down their fronts and laughing over some—most definitely inappropriate—joke. His regular group of goblins was huddled around a round table, slapping cards down and cackling as chips passed from one spindly hand to the other. Aberforth was comfortably busy, keeping the taps flowing for his customers, keeping a running conversation with the simpering witches at the bar, and keeping an eye on what looked like Mundungus Fletcher in a balaclava and an assortment of scarves muttering shiftily to another edgy character in the corner. So when the door creaked open, the bell tinkling amidst the general hub-bub, and a shorter-than-average person slipped in, he just assumed it was another goblin joining his friends at their table. 

It wasn’t until later, as the crowd filtered slowly out the door, that he saw the small figure. The kid—a boy, based on the hair and the clothes, but he couldn’t be sure—was sitting alone in a booth. The booth was large, high off the ground, and the kid’s feet dangled. He was so small, so slight in comparison, his elbows resting on the table, his head slumped into his arms. Shaking breaths rose out of him, lifting his shoulders with every inhale. He looked… fragile, and Aberforth wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He hadn’t dealt with a kid like this since Ariana and, well. Sore spot.

Waving the rest of his customers off, turning the front lights off and bolting the door, Aberforth stepped lightly towards the boy. He was still several steps away, but the boy jolted awake, his hair wildly ruffled and crazed, his brown cheeks faintly red with the imprint of his sleeve. His face was positively stricken by sleep, surprise, and—as Aberforth examined him closely, noticed the twitching, the instantly alert and narrowed eyes—panic.

“’Bought time you head on home to your parents, lad,” Aberforth bit out gruffly. Clearly, the boy was a local runt; maybe he had a fight with his mum and ran away for the night or was up to no good—either way, he could make his own way home.

The boy blushed, heat rising up to his ears and tinging them pink. He slipped from the booth and landed gracelessly, ankle turning slightly. Aberforth noticed the way his oversized socks had fallen down his calves, his untied trainers, his baggy t-shirt with a few rips and stains.

“Sorry, sir,” the boy stammered. “I’ll leave right away if, do you mind, can I use the toilet?” He bit his lip, looked down at the ground.

Aberforth didn’t know what to do. He wanted to clean up and go to bed—it was half-past two—but something about the kid was off, and his long-buried sense of nurturing was digging itself out of the dirt.

“You got two minutes,” he said. “Toilet’s in the back, first door on the left.”

The boy sped past him, thanking him profusely and stumbling over his feet in his hurry. As he passed, his hair bounced in the air and Aberforth saw what looked like—it couldn’t be, could it? It was a scar, faint but distinct, jagged lines traced into the boy’s forehead, a lightning bolt still holding all the anger and power of a thunderstorm.

So. Harry Potter, dirty and unkempt, had found his way into the Hog’s Head. Interesting.

↠

Harry looked at his face in the mirror and grimaced. He felt grubby and stale, dirty with the night’s tension. He splashed himself with water and tried to force himself to full consciousness. He hadn’t meant to doze off earlier, only rest a bit before he figured out what to do, but before he knew it he was being startled awake by the barman; he was good at waking up before people got too close, used to sensing Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia coming to shake him awake after a nightmare or if he slept in.

The barman looked oddly familiar, Harry thought. He had a long, shaggy white beard that came to a point, and his eyes were a dark blue that seemed to stare straight through him to his bones. He hadn’t liked looking at him for too long; it set him on edge. Maybe it was just an old man wizard thing—Dumbledore gave him the same feeling.

The Night Bus had been too loud and bright for Harry, environmentally and emotionally. He’d managed to escape Stan Shunpike after a bit, feigning sleep, but the jolting, squealing bus had kept him awake, jumping with each stop and start. Harry had spent most of the ride catching the rushed glimpses of Britain out the window: the marshes, the villages perched on rolling hills, the vast buildings of London. By the time the Night Bus arrived at Hogsmeade a few hours later, he was completely drained, no longer thinking of the Dursleys but instead dull to everything and anything around him. He just wanted to be someplace _safe_ , somewhere he could let his guard down _._ But he had no clue where that could be. How far was Hogwarts? Maybe he could make it to the Quidditch pitch, break in to the storage unit. But could he even get onto the grounds? He vaguely remembered Hermione talking about extra protections around the boundary, or something—maybe he could only get in with permission or with the other students. _Hermione._ He thought of her with a pang of yearning. She would know what to do. He could almost imagine her, marching him briskly towards wherever the solution was, absolutely confident. He was Gryffindor, wasn’t he? Where was his bravery now?

Blinking sleepily at his face in the mirror, he realized he had no plan. Sighing, he left the toilet and made his way to the entrance to the bar. In the dark of the night, he hadn’t been able to read the sign—something about hogs... maybe Hogwarts’ Bar? It had been raucous and busy earlier; no one paid him much attention, and he’d been grateful for the break though he hadn’t meant to fall asleep so easily. He still felt dizzy and numb, disoriented and far away from himself. As he moved towards the door, a hand grabbed his wrist and he flinched, startled. Behind him, the barman loomed threateningly, his eyes severe.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To my parents,” Harry said, “You were right; I, er, I should get going.”

“Last I remembered,” the barman said quietly, each word piercing, “Harry Potter didn’t have any parents left.”

Harry flinched and pulled his wrist from the man’s grasp. The barman huffed.

“So why’s such an important kid like you in Hogsmeade all on his own? Mind you don’t lie to me again, boy.”

Harry fidgeted, looking down at his trainers, scuffing one foot against the other.

“I took the Night Bus, sir. I didn’t really know where else to go, and I thought, maybe, I thought I could get to Hogwarts somehow. But it was stupid, I guess.”

“Damn straight it was,” the barman said. “It’s not safe for you, especially not now.”

“Why not?” Harry asked curiously. “What’s happening?”

“You haven’t… well, never you mind. Not my place, is it? The point is, kid, I’m closing up and you can’t very well stay here. You thought you could get to Hogwarts? Boundaries aren’t open until September unless you got express permission.”

Harry sighed. Of course. Everything was rushing through his head at once and swirling around dangerously. His vision seemed to dim, light leaking out of everything around him. He felt dizzy and noticed distantly that he was trembling.

“I just… I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he whispered, and the words were hardly out of his mouth before he felt his knees buckle and his body slide to the floor. Vaguely, he was aware of the barman crouching over him, his face contorted with worry, but his eyes were so heavy and his heart so tired, and his consciousness slowly left his body there on the ground.

↠

Harry came to with the scent of chocolate and cinnamon wafting through the air. He turned his body slightly, and realized he was laying on a sofa of sorts, with a quilt draped on top of him. Had he fallen asleep on Aunt Petunia’s settee? Oh, she would kill him. He tried to lift himself off the couch—it was so dense and plush, his body sunk into it—but a pale wrinkled hand forced him back down.

“Oh no you don’t, Potter,” the barman said. “I won’t have you fainting on me twice in one night. You stay there.”

He hardly had the strength to do anything else. His body felt like it was made of wax, sticky and melted and fully unusable. The barman shoved a mug into his hands, and he blinked at the heat of it. Cautiously, he took a sip—it was a dark hot chocolate, richer than anything he’d ever had, dense with cinnamon and nutmeg and something he couldn’t identify, a sharp peppery flavor that coated his tongue.

“Thank you, sir. It’s wonderful,” he said timidly, still trying to get a bearing for where he was and what exactly was happening. He’d fainted, he remembered that much. And now—well, he thought he must be above the bar on the second floor. The walls looked much the same, stiff dark oak blurred by dust and age, but the room was much smaller and there was an assortment of chintz sofas and armchairs, a thick rug covering much of the floor, and hallways that must lead off to other rooms. _This must be the man’s house,_ he thought, alarmed by being so vulnerable in front of someone completely foreign to him. He’d said that it was dangerous—was _he_ dangerous? There was a nagging fear in Harry’s mind that he shouldn’t have accepted the hot chocolate without thinking—it could be poisoned.

The barman was still staring at him. Grimacing, the man said, “You can call me Aberforth. I don’t much like being called “sir,” it’s too posh for me.”

“Yes, s- Aberforth. Thank you,” Harry said, stumbling over the oft-repeated phrase he was so used to. “I’m sorry for fainting earlier.”

“Not something you should really being apologizing for, is it,” Aberforth said, and Harry blushed. “Your cheek looks swollen. Somebody hurt you?”

Harry gripped the mug tightly in his hands. He’d forgotten about his cheek. He could feel its warmth, now that he thought about it, the tickling pricks of pain sprouting from it—he hadn’t thought about it since Little Whinging, but it would probably be bruising by now, wouldn’t it?

“It’s fine, really. It was an accident.”

Aberforth snorted. “That’s likely.” He dropped the issue, though, and Harry was relieved.

“Listen, I d’nno why you’re here, Potter, but you can’t stay here. I d’nno where you stayed before, but you should probably find a way back there b’fore too long.”

“I don’t have any money for the Bus, si- Aberforth. And I don’t—” Harry trailed off, not wanting to admit he didn’t have any place left to go. “I can’t go home right now, is all,” he finished weakly. 

Aberforth looked at him gruffly, his eyebrows furrowed, and Harry shrank back. “I can leave here though, I can find someplace else, I’m sorry for staying here, I can go now,” he said in a rush, words melting together in his panic. Of course the man was angry at him; he was in his home, drinking his chocolate, lying on his sofa—he needed to get out before the man did anything. He tried to push himself off the sofa again, but Aberforth shot out an arm, pressing him down once again.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” he said, and Harry flinched, remembering Uncle Vernon’s words from earlier. Was that still just a few hours ago? It felt like ages.

Abruptly, Aberforth stood up and walked out of the room. He came back in a few moments with his own mug, taking long swigs—somehow, Harry didn’t think it was hot chocolate as he watched the man gasp and wrinkle his nose with each drink.

“Alright,” Aberforth said finally. “I don’t have much room, but you’ll stay here tonight, Potter. I won’t be the one responsible for you going and getting yourself killed on your own—Lord, I’d never live that one down with my brother. So you can stay here, and tomorrow morning first thing I’ll send for someone at Hogwarts to come deal with you.”

He said it all so firmly, Harry didn’t have any choice but to nod. “Thank you, Aberforth. Sorry.”

“I’ve heard enough of that, Potter. I s’pect I’m not the one you need to apologizin’ to. Now, it’s far past your bedtime. Do y’ need more blankets? No? Alright, then. See you in the morn’.”

↠

Harry woke, his muscles stiff from the sofa, but he felt far better than he had before. His sleep had been plagued by Aunt Marge’s face as she choked, red and shocked and splitting at the seams. In his dreams, Aunt Marge kept choking, her throat constricting until her head popped off like a balloon, floating into space, her body limp at the dining table, and Uncle Vernon was screaming at him, screaming _you killed her, you killed her,_ but Harry just laughed, a screeching cackle, something evil in the way it ricocheted from his throat. Upon waking his scar was sore and tender, and as he examined it in Aberforth’s bathroom mirror, it matched the bruised look of his cheek, tinged red and purple.

When he came out of the bathroom, Aberforth had made toast with marmalade and a pot of tea. Surprisingly, Harry didn’t really feel hungry—he hadn’t eaten since dinner, and even then he’d just picked at the steak and potatoes he and Aunt Petunia had made—but the tea helped clarify the world around him, made him feel fully solid for the first time in a while.

“Right,” Aberforth grunted. “I’ve sent a message up to the castle and someone’ll be here in a bit to pick you up.”

“Who?” Harry asked curiously. 

“Don’t rightly know myself. Reckon we'll find out though, won't we?”

Harry crossed his fingers and hoped for Hagrid. He’d taken Madame Pomfrey too, even though she’d cluck and mother hen him thoroughly. If it was Filch though… He’d rather walk all the way back to Surrey.

A few tense minutes later—Harry and Aberforth both silent and fidgety, not quite sure how to fill awkward silences—there was a rap on the door down below. They both leapt eagerly from their seats, the air feeling dense and humid around them. Following Aberforth down the stairs, Harry anxiously scraped his hair back, trying to look somewhat clean. He felt disgusting, his teeth sugary from last night’s hot chocolate and his clothes a day old and grimy.

Aberforth pulled open the door, creaking and groaning as it shifted, and a long shadow spilled out onto the flooring. It was early morning bright, the sun’s rays stabbing through the entrance, and for a moment Harry squinted in the light, trying to see who it was.

The shadow stepped forward, revealing a thin man with a long curtain of black hair and a venomous expression on his face, black eyes narrowed and glittering.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape sneered, taking in Harry's ripped shirt, his bruised cheek, his scratched elbow, and spitting venom with every syllable, “what mess have you deigned to mix yourself into now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this time! I'm hoping to make them longer as we get more into the bulk of the story and the plot I'm working towards, which of course will pick up more once we get into the school year and have loads more characters. 
> 
> Thanks for reading ❤


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape becomes responsible for Harry; in the process, he learns some things about the boy he kind of wishes he hadn't.

Severus Snape was having a disgustingly annoying morning. First, Madame Pomfrey owled him while he was still sleeping, asking if he could come to Hogwarts and deliver a re-stock of her Pepper-Up and Skele-Grow potions. Then she kept nagging him, pestering him for hours about the most trivial of things—how he was, what he did that summer, why he never owled her, and so on. She was _infuriating,_ especially when she tried to slip medical examination charms over him as if he wasn’t paying attention. Honestly, the nerve of that woman. She even forced him to have tea with her and McGonagall, who stayed at the castle as Deputy Headmistress, and sitting in a room with two women who insisted on mothering him was one of his most dreaded nightmares—just below that of being discovered as a spy for Dumbledore and being brutally tortured by Voldemort and his cronies before his death.

And then, just as he was on his way back to the apparition point outside the grounds, on his way back to the privacy and sanctity of his own home, a silvery translucent goat sauntered up to him and butted him firmly in the side with its horns.

 “Message for Hogwarts professor,” the goat said in a deeply bored tone, “Student at Hog’s Head; no wand or money. Needs assistance.” The goat stared at Severus, its eerie, rectangular pupils boring into his own.

“Yes, fine, I’ll come, Aberforth,” Severus snapped. “Bloody Dumbledores,” he muttered as the goat promptly trotted away before dissipating into nothingness. Slashing his cloak through the air behind him, he headed back towards the lake and Hogsmeade down below. Albus would most definitely hear about this—his summers were sacred, the one time he could get away from the blasted students and chaos of Hogwarts; this was _not_ how he’d envisioned his day going. At all.

↠

When Harry saw Snape in the door of the Hog’s Head, he panicked. He had half the urge to hide behind Aberforth, though he never would, of course—not only did he understand he’d get no protection from someone else, but he also knew he’d never live down the ridicule that would follow. He gulped.

“Well?” Snape sneered, leering down at him. “Have you no answer for why you chose to place such a burden on this poor barman’s doorstep, making him wait on you and give up his home? For why you drug me from _my_ home to deal with such an insufferable child? Answer me, Potter!”

“Calm down, Snape,” Aberforth said, glancing sharply at him. “I d’nno the full story but I reck’n there’s more to it than a kid’s antics.”

Harry just stared. “I—” He fell silent. What could he tell _Snape?_ Why couldn’t it have been anyone else? He would have taken Filch over this. Even the Bloody Baron would be better.

“Out with it!”

“I—my aunt and uncle kicked me out, and I didn’t have any stuff, and then there was this dog and a bus and I got here and I—”

“There was a dog?” Snape interrupted briskly, an urgent glimmer in his eyes. There was a manic energy coming off the man, and Harry fought back the urge to cower.

“You ask me to tell you what happened and then you interrupt me—why ask if you don’t want to listen? Sir,” Harry spat, his courage rearing behind his words.

“Was. There. A. Dog.”

“Yes, yes, there was a dog. Why does it matter?”

Snape blinked and pulled back a little, adjusting his robes. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Potter. What did the dog do?”

“It—It pushed me. I was standing and it pushed me and my arm flew out and then, the bus…” The answer didn’t seem to satisfy Snape, whose face seemed to catapult between varying emotions. Harry was caught between terror and curiosity—what did the dog matter to Snape?

“Very well, then. And you thought you could just come to Hogwarts and your professors would take care of you? Poor little Potter, darling boy of the Wizarding World, Dumbledore’s favorite little boy: you expected us to drop everything for you, didn’t you, boy? Well, no. You’ll find no preferential treatment from me, Potter.” Snape finished triumphantly, staring down at Harry with a snide look.

He was right, of course. What had Harry thought would happen? Feeling the beginning of tears start to tighten his eyes, he bit his lip, desperate not to show weakness in front of the man who most loathed him. He gripped his hands tightly so they didn’t shake.

“Listen, Snape—maybe we can talk over here?” Aberforth said, trying to pull Snape by his sleeve.

Snape wrenched his arm from the barman, and Harry thought he looked vaguely like a petulant child as he did so. The thought must have shown on his face somehow, because Snape snapped at him, “wipe that look off your face, boy! Your impertinent attitude will get you no further today.”

Aberforth turned to Harry then, and seemed almost concerned by the situation. Was it possible the barman genuinely wanted to help him? He didn’t seem to be friends with Snape—though he did know who he was, apparently.

“Kid, would you make us some tea? Run upstairs, alright, and we’ll be up in a moment. I need to talk to your professor.” Turning back to Snape, he said, “ _Severus,_ I reck’n you’ve spent enough time here listening to conversations you weren’t meant to overhear. Hows abouts you do me the _honor_ of listening to this one?”

Snape’s face went absolutely white, his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes blank, void of their usual glare; even his robes seemed to deflate around him.  

“Potter! Tea!” he barked, the words strained and sharp.

Wanting to know what Aberforth had meant, Harry considered staying, but at the looks on both the men’s faces he decided to play it safe, and dashed quickly up the stairs to the kitchenette. _That_ , he thought, _is a conversation I should steer well clear of._

↠

Aberforth was not a fan of Severus Snape. They’d had a few altercations over the years—one involving a prophecy that went particularly poorly—and each had ended with the mutual recognition that they were not friends, they would never be friends, and that no matter how much Albus tried to mix them together, they were quite content to avoid each other at all costs. He was vaguely shocked Snape had even responded to his Patronus.

So the chance to have a full on shouting match? Deliciously tempting. He’d savored every moment of Snape’s stupor after his comment, the way his face paled beyond comparison. A man liked that deserved to be taken down a notch or two, Aberforth thought.

But, he also knew that this was about the boy. The boy that Snape seemed to loathe as much as Aberforth himself loathed Snape. But Potter needed help—even he could see that—and Snape was, at the moment, their best chance.

“Snape, hear me out,” he tried to say, but Snape interjected with a strained hiss.

“Listen to me, Aberforth. Listen to me very closely. You will _not_ mention that again. I do not _care_ who your brother is or what ties I have to him, if you mention that—that _moment—_ ever again, I will not only fill your bar with Fiendfyre but I will trap you, your consciousness, and your goats in with it so that you burn along with your life’s work and love. Do you hear me? I will find the world’s longest-acting poisons and pour each and every one down your throat and watch as you die an incredibly slow death, and then I will rennervate your consciousness and do it all again. Do. Not. Speak. Of. That. Again.”

“Christ,” Aberforth laughed, impressed despite himself. “Your threats are getting more believable, Snape. That wasn’t half-bad.”

Snape snarled.

“Alright, I’m sorry. You’re right—I went too far.” Aberforth raised his hands in submission. He’d forgotten what his brother’s chained dog could do without his leash.

“What, precisely, did you intend to speak to me about in the privacy of your _lovely_ bar?” Snape asked.

“It’s about the boy. Potter.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of his name. What of him?”

“Well, he’s… Something’s off. I don’t think he’s just messing about. He was right panicked last night and seems… itchy.”

“Please, Aberforth, speak with some modicum of intellect. Spare me the burden of translating this entire conversation.”

“God, you’re an arse.” Aberforth raised his hands again and laughed as Snape’s face contorted. “Sorry, sorry. This is important; I’ll control myself if you do the same. It’s just—Potter’s scared of something. He fainted last night, right in front of me. Showed up with a bruised face, some injuries on his palms and elbows and stuff. Seems skinny, weak. Anxious, I guess, maybe that’s the right dictionary word for it. And he wouldn’t tell me nothin’, just kept saying he was fine and sorts—but couldn’t give me a proper explanation for why he was here, could he?”

Snape continued looking at him, eyebrow cocked as if to say _so what?_

“Look,” Aberforth sighed. “Just go easy on him, will you? As easy as you can go, that is. Try to limit yourself to one insult per minute. Maybe this is something Albus needs to deal with instead. Or, someone whose temper is generally more suited for this.”

“You deem me incapable,” Snape said.

“No! Of course not. Well, maybe.”

The two men stared at each other, once again in mutual understanding and recognition, two territorial cats deciding—once again—that it was easiest just to not come any closer.

↠

When Harry came down with the tea, the men were glaring daggers at each other but seemed content not to murder each other, which was nice. Barely glancing at the tea—Harry had to drag a chair to the counter to reach the loose-leaf in the cabinets and it’d taken quite a lot of effort—Snape said, “Right, Potter, we’re leaving.”

“Now?” Harry asked. He’d even found a roll of biscuits to bring with the tea, which he’d carried on a heavy platter down the stairs—an impressive feat, he’d thought.

“Yes, _now._ The Express is on its way shortly and I don’t intend to hail a cab. I’ve half the mind to let you make your own way back to those Muggles of yours—but of course, then I’d miss the chance to see you beg for them to take you back.”

“Wait—you’re taking me back? I can’t… I thought I could just stay at Hogwarts, maybe, or go to the Weasley’s, or—”

“Absolutely not, Potter. You are enough of a burden on this school during the year; I will not have you traipsing through the halls in reckless abandon during the summer as well. As for the Weasley’s, I’m positive they have enough rambunctious teenagers on their hands at the moment, aren’t you? Now hurry up!”

Snape turned towards the door and wrenched it open, slamming it behind him as he left.

With a gulp, Harry jumped to follow him. “Thank you, Aberforth. I—I appreciate all you did, really.” He was halfway through the door when Aberforth cleared his throat and spoke.

“Potter. Take the damn biscuits.”

Smiling half-heartedly, Harry took the roll of biscuits gently in his hands, and hurried after Snape, who was already several paces down the street.

↠

The Hogwarts Express was a lonesome thing when no students were on it. Harry hated the way the carriages felt, looming, empty things that were stifling in their vastness. And sitting across from Snape for hours made things impossibly worse. The whole ride back to London, Harry squirmed and fidgeted in the oppressive silence. Occasionally, Snape would snap at him and he’d look back out the window, but there was just _nothing to do._ He’d tried to eat a biscuit but Snape had snarled at the crinkle of the wrapper, so he’d slipped it back into his pocket.

By the time they got to London, it was midafternoon and sweaty; Harry felt bogged down by the air and the sun and the _everything._ Maybe it was just living with the Dursleys, but he’d always hated summer. Today was no different, and he fanned his face in the sun. But Snape looked… exactly the same as he always did. He seemed unaffected by the heat entirely, not even the slightest sheen of sweat, despite his layers of black robes. How did he do it? Idly, Harry wondered if there were permanent cooling charms or something that wizards could do; he’d have to ask Hermione.

Once they got to London, Snape _did_ hail a cab—despite his earlier claim. He barked out the address for Number 4, which struck Harry as odd—how did he know where he lived?

Stepping out of the cab and into the street in front of the Dursley’s, Harry’s heart felt rooted firmly between his knees. In just a day, his whole life had flown out of control. He felt as if he’d swallowed one of Neville’s messed-up potions, and everything in his life was spinning and doing _exactly_ what he didn’t want it to do. He should have shut his mouth with Aunt Marge, he knew that. He should’ve refused to leave after Uncle Vernon threw him out, waited until morning to try to reason with him. He’d spent a night in the garden before, after he didn’t finish weeding and mowing before dinner, and he’d made it through that, so another night would’ve been fine. He’d been stupid, running away so quickly.

Snape brushed past him. “Hurry up, Potter.” With a firm rap, he knocked on the Dursley’s door.

“You.” Aunt Petunia glared up at Snape, who was a good head taller than she, looking like she was ready to slam the door in his face already.

“Hello, Tuney,” Snape hissed. “I’ve brought your belongings back.”

Aunt Petunia’s gaze passed down to Harry, who grimaced and ducked his head.

“Vernon threw her out,” Aunt Petunia said, “She’s not welcome back here after the mess she caused.”

Harry flinched. _Her._ The dull ring of panic was back in his ears, his vision tunneling and blurring. Snape knew, now. Snape knew. It was over, everything—he would never make it through today. His face reddened with mortification.

Snape didn’t seem phased, though. After a second’s pause, all he said was, “I believe you’re aware of the contract made with Professor Dumbledore, are you not? This is your blood, Tuney. There will be consequences.”

Aunt Petunia shuddered.

“What contract?” Harry asked. He’d never heard this.

“Shut up,” Aunt Petunia said, “and get in. I don’t want the neighbors seeing your kind here.”

 In the dim light of the hallway, Harry saw the house through Snape’s eyes. The quaint wallpaper and linoleum, the kitschy rugs and décor. And the cupboard under the stairs, a bright padlock on the small door. He hadn’t slept there since he was eleven, but it was still a popular place for Uncle Vernon to lock him as punishment for a few hours.

“Vernon’s not here,” Aunt Petunia sniffed. “He and Dudley are taking Aunt Marge to the train station—after last night, she decided to cut her visit short. He won’t be happy that the girl’s back.”

“No, I suppose he won’t, will he?” Snape said, his lips curling in an expression far too evil to be a smile. “Potter! Show me your room.”

“Why?”

“Why, _sir,_ Potter—and I don’t believe it’s your prerogative to disobey direct orders, do you?”

Sighing, Harry trudged up the stairs to Dudley’s second room. It was a mess, a clutter of broken toys and televisions and unwanted gifts to one side, his small, lumpy cot to the other. “Hedwig!” Harry said with a thrill of pleasure. She was still there. She was safe. As she saw him she hooted shrilly and tapped her claws against the cage. He rushed to let her out; she perched on his arm while he stroked her feathers, her claws digging in a little more tightly than normal as if to say, _I was worried for you._

“Is this rubbish yours, Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry said, looking at the assorted clutter. “’s my cousin Dudley’s.”

“Do not mutter, boy; it merely makes you seem more of an urchin than you already do.”

Harry scowled.

“Well, _sir,_ you’ve dropped me off. Thanks, and all, but I’m sure you’ll be happy to leave as soon as possible.”

“Quite right, Mr. Potter. However, there may be a few issues I will need to address with Tuney.”

“Why do you call her that, sir? Do you know her?”

“Don’t ask questions, boy.”

And then, speak of the devil, Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice came from the stairwell. “ _Boy?_ ” she cried. “So you put up with this absolute nonsense of hers, do you? I knew it, I knew that school was good for nothing—your lot thinks you can just fly off and be whatever you want. You let her get away with this?”

Harry’s hands started to shake, and he shoved them into his pockets.

“No,” Aunt Petunia said, continuing her diatribe. "Vernon and I won’t stand for this, this, insanity in our house. He was right to throw the girl out when he did, and we won’t care for her any longer. Ever since she darkened our doorstep thirteen years ago she’s been nothing but trouble and misery.”

“While I don’t doubt your latter statement,” Snape said, stepping towards her, “I don’t believe you’re able to abandon Potter without the consent of Dumbledore and the redaction of the vow—are you prepared for that trial?”

“Well, then, Vernon will beat it out of her, won’t he? We can’t have a _freak_ like her in our house any longer. She’ll influence Dudley, she’ll turn this family into a mockery!”

Harry had backed away from the conversation, turning away from them and towards the window in the guise of letting Hedwig out. He’d heard this before, of course, years and years of insults and promises of pain, but to have his professor hear it was a new level of torture. He imagined Snape telling the Slytherins, telling the whole school, and shuddered violently. Hedwig, still latched firmly onto his arm, gave a hoot of concern and pecked at his neck. In the corner of his eye, he saw Snape turn towards them slightly at the sound, a brisk motion quickly reshaped into merely shifting his robes.

Snape seemed to be whispering now, his words difficult to catch as he hissed, “You would threaten a child? You haven’t changed, Tuney—you will always be the cruel playground bully you were before. You worry about Potter’s influence on your family—I think you’ve fucked it up enough all on your own.”

Aunt Petunia seemed to choke, a small gasp squeaking from her throat. “H-How dare you! In my own house!” But the words had no effect on Snape, who turned rapidly towards Harry and barked, “Potter! Collect your things.”

↠

Harry’s face when Snape had turned to him had been a frantic mess of emotions, most of which Snape tried—and failed, miserably—to ignore. Pain, fear, panic, horror.

“Well? Hurry up! I’ve places to be, boy.” At this, the boy’s eyes widened further.

“W-why do I need my things? Aren’t I staying here?”

“If you want to, I suppose I cannot force you, but unless I am mistaken I imagine you would prefer to be quite literally anywhere else.”

“I—yes, sir. I would.”

“Then be quick about it. Where are your school materials?”

“Er—” Harry stuttered, already frantically throwing his meager selection of clothes in a satchel, stowing the nuisance of an owl back into her cage. “Er—downstairs, sir. Under the stairs.”

“Very well. Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

Snape walked quickly away from the room, away from the boy, and took a moment to examine his own mental state. He hadn’t fully expected to speak to Petunia after all this time; yes, he knew she was the one responsible for the Potter boy’s care, but it wasn’t until he saw her at the door that his brain fully registered the implication.

Even worse was his revelation about the Dursley’s home. It was stained with negative energy, a charcoal ooze he could feel emanating from every room—though, most particularly, from the cupboard under the stairs, which he was now unlocking. Rather than an _alohomora,_ he instead vanished the padlock entirely, watching it pop out of existence with grim satisfaction. Inside, the cupboard sweltered with pain, its energy almost too much for him to bear. Strengthening his occlumency barriers, he crouched down into the space to examine it.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Potter’s stuff was there, yes, his books and parchment and even his fancy broom, shoved haphazardly into the space with abandon. Beneath them, he saw what looked like an old cot, thin and threadbare. On a ledge, there was a small toy soldier with a broken gun, a battered _Hot Wheels_ truck, and a plastic buck figurine whose antlers were missing, leaving white stumps in their wake. And, looking up to the ceiling itself, brushing away some cobwebs, he saw faint lettering in children’s scratch, large, messy capital letters spelling H-A-R-R-Y.

Snape restarted his breath—somewhere in there, he’d stopped breathing, the space uninhabitable—and stepped back from the cupboard. Groaning, he sent a hasty Patronus to Dumbledore. So, he really was doing this, was he? He could imagine Dumbledore’s words: “ _You’ve taken an interest in the boy, Severus?”_ He knew the headmaster would be thoroughly antagonistic about this; he wouldn’t let him live it down anytime soon.

But, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he knew Potter could no longer live on Privet Drive. There were too many warning signs, too much painful energy—fear and hurt and sorrow mixed up in a putrid ball of misery—and it was clear that, whatever had happened the night prior, the boy would not be safe once his repugnant uncle returned.

“I’m ready, sir,” the boy’s timid voice said from behind him, and Snape cast a quick _reducio_ on the books and broom, sweeping them into a small drawstring back. With a thought, he swept in the broken toys, as well. Perhaps they held some nostalgia for the child.

“You’re really leaving?” Petunia asked, standing awkwardly away from them.

“Do you not wish it so?” Snape spat. Petunia said nothing. “I will be informing Dumbledore of your maltreatment of the boy. Do not think this will be ignored, or that your debt has been paid.”

And then, once again, he was traveling with Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the brat who wouldn’t stop ruining his summer holidays. _Bloody hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a good snarky friendship/mutual appreciation between Snape & McGonagall & Pomfrey. Hopefully I'll get to write some actual scenes with them sometime.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape takes Harry to the Leaky Cauldron; Harry and the gang reunite.

Snape took Potter to the Leaky Cauldron. The boy had been infernally frustrating with his questions. “Where are we going? Why didn’t you leave me there? How do you know Aunt Petunia? What’s going to happen to me? Do I have to go back?” Eventually, Snape just told him to shut up and let him think; his head was swirling with most of the same questions, and he needed to _think._

“You’ll stay there for the rest of the summer,” Snape said in the cab to Harry.

“Really? You mean, I don’t have to go back?”

“Not as of yet, Potter.”

The boy smiled, an open and innocent smile that crinkled his eyes and made Snape want to cringe. He’d put an end to that.

“Potter.”

“Yes?”

“Ensure that you do not stray to the Muggle side of London. You must stay on Diagon Alley at all times. You must tell Tom, the barkeep, where you are going each day. You must be back before 8 each evening. Do not stray, do not dally, do not stick your head into places you should not. You must be careful.”

“Why?”

Snape sighed. He knew Dumbledore hadn’t wanted the boy to know, not fully, but he couldn’t let him wander around with his arrogant, foolhardy ways—he would be killed instantly.

“There is a man, Potter. Sirius Black. He escaped from Azkaban—the wizard prison.”

“I know what Azkaban is. Why does that matter?”

“Why does that matter, _sir._ Just because I am not oblivious to your wretched home does not mean you can lax your respect for your professors. And it matters because you are a _child,_ a foolish one at that, and because you are also—for whatever reason—the precious savior of the Wizarding World. Black is a madman, a murderer, a despicable creature with no morality left inside him. He seeks to kill you for that scar on your forehead, Potter, and while I am tempted to let him, the Headmaster wishes you to live past the meager age of thirteen.”

The boy paused—if Snape hadn’t known better, he’d have said the boy was actually _thinking._

“Okay,” he said eventually. “I’ll be careful.”

“See that you are.”

“Sir?” Potter turned to look at him, and Snape pointedly did not meet his eyes. “How come you know Aunt Petunia?”

The cab squealed as it turned a tight corner, and Snape felt his stomach turn with it.

“I,” he said slowly, his face rigid as he spoke, “knew your aunt from… childhood. We lived in the same neighborhood.”

“So you knew my mother, too? What was she like? Were you—”

“Enough! Cease your questions. It is in the past, I have a headache, and I will thank you kindly to sit in peace.”

There was a moment’s pause. The boy drew a great breath, and Snape groaned.

“Sorry, professor, it’s just…” He trailed off, his face pink. “About my aunt, and, and, and what she said. About me. In the house. I…”

His headache was turning into a migraine, definitely. He could feel his nerves pinch and tighten, and he wished desperately for a potion and a brandy.

“Rest assured, Mr. Potter,” he said, wondering exactly how he would finish the rest of the sentence, “What your aunt says means little to me. As both a Muggle and a repulsive unfit parental figure, I choose not to listen to her, ah, proclamations regarding yourself.”

“So then,” Potter said in a near whisper, “You won’t… you won’t tell?”

“Who, precisely, would I tell?” His temples pounded. This was not supposed to be his fucking job. “As far as I am aware, your… identity has gone unquestioned thus far, and I will not be the one to garner the boy who lived any more attention or fanfare. Now, if you are physically capable, be silent.”

Another pause. The cab puttered slowly to a stop outside the Leaky Cauldron.

Halfway out of the door, Snape heard the slightest whisper from inside the car, possibly not meant to be heard.

“Thank you.”

↠

The Leaky Cauldron was incredible. Harry had never been upstairs to see the lodging before, but it was magnificent; his room was filled with muted blues and grays, his bed was filled with perfectly-firm pillows, and by the end of his first evening, his stomach was filled with mashed potatoes, stew, and trifle. The barkeep, Tom, had been cheery and pleasant and reminded him a bit of Hagrid. The Cauldron was filled with visitors at night, witches and wizards and their families staying after shopping before heading back in the mornings, but during the day it was fairly empty, and Harry could stretch his homework out across a wide oak table and work in the dim, cool shadows of the pub.

Snape had been… super weird after the Dursleys. Strangely _nice,_ if that was possible. Harry couldn’t believe he wasn’t at the Dursleys. He had his things—Hedwig, his wand, his books, his clothes—and a space of his own to do whatever he wanted for the next month. Well—mostly whatever he wanted. He still had to finish his essays for his classes, and he had the ridiculous curfew Snape had given him. “Rest assured, I will know if you disobey me,” Snape had said before he left, “and Black will be the least of your concerns.”

The man confused Harry. He knew he hated him, of course, but beneath his insults and stiff language seemed to something else. Harry thought of his own defenses, the ways he grew used to talking to the Dursleys and his classmates before Hogwarts so that he couldn’t be hurt. Snape seemed strangely similar to that, and Harry wondered what he was protecting himself from. Then, with a laugh, he realized he did _not_ want to spend the rest of his summer break thinking about _Snape._

Harry spent his afternoons wandering the golden-bricked streets. He ate free sundaes at Florian Fortescue’s, who helped him with his homework; Fortescue had a knack for charms, and excitedly taught Harry some new ones like the cheering charm, which had him giggling and carefree for a full afternoon, and _diminuendo,_ which he could use to shrink his stuff to take to Hogwarts and was wildly helpful. He visited Eeylop’s Emporium and purchased the most high-quality treats he could find for Hedwig, who devoured them rapidly and gratefully, pecking his fingertips gently. He let her out every night now, a luxury she’d never had at the Dursleys, and she would reward him with bits of frogs and mice. He purchased all his books and new supplies, like a never-ending quill and spill-proof parchment (even after two years, he was still quite messy with quills and wished he could use a regular ball-point). And, for the first time in his life, Harry went shopping for clothes all on his own. He’d gotten robes with Hagrid, but he’d been too ashamed to ask to go to a proper clothing store. Diagon Alley didn’t sell a whole lot of regular streetwear, but he managed to pick up a few nice sweaters, silky and smooth and gentle on his skin. He was tempted to cross over into Muggle London, but he trusted Snape to keep his word and he wasn’t excited by the prospect of a year’s worth of detention.

His new, exciting routine in his new, exciting (temporary) home didn’t stop the nightmares, though. He was used to the regular one—the flash of green light, the scream—but lately they’d expanded. The one with Aunt Marge became recurring, growing larger each time. Sometimes instead of accidental magic it was his hands to her throat. Other tormentors had visited his nights, too. One night, Quirrell had appeared, his large turban slowly unwinding, a hideous pale face contorted by pain and anger revealed bit by bit; when its eyes were uncovered, they were red and scalding. They burned Harry, and he screamed and screamed until he woke up, panting and sweating. Sometimes the memory of Tom Riddle came, with the basilisk (eyes unblinded, fresh and fierce) and he would try desperately to speak Parseltongue and dissuade it from killing, but it couldn’t understand him. After those dreams he would wake with his throat dry and his lips bared, as if caught mid-hiss.

The dreams left Harry more exhausted with each day, and once he finished his homework he took to resting in the sun at Fortescue’s, his brown skin warm and bright in the sun. It was there that Ron and Hermione saw him on the last week of August.

They called out to him and met him with fierce hugs, Ron’s freckled, gangly arms wrapping tightly around him, Hermione’s kinky hair lifting in the air and haloing her chubby cheeks.

“It’s so good to see you!” Hermione said at the same time that Ron said, “Blimey, can’t believe you got out of staying with the Dursleys!”

The next few days passed blissfully. Both Ron and Hermione’s families were staying at the Leaky Cauldron, too, and so dinners were crowded affairs, with three tables shoved together to fit all of them together. Harry played cards with the twins, chatted amicably with Percy, taught Mr. Weasley about television and video games, and led Ron, Hermione, and Ginny around the shops. Ginny, he found, had a quick humor and seemed to have opened up much since last year—he supposed he didn’t have much time to get to know her, as she was possessed by Voldemort’s teenage soul for half the year. She fit in well with them, even though Ron rolled his eyes and groaned when she tagged along, telling her to bugger off; she didn’t seem to mind, though.

He relayed Snape’s warning about Sirius Black. Most of the shops had at least one big poster of him on their window, and Harry had watched one for a while, examining the man’s wild hair and wilder eyes, his gaunt face and desperate expression. _A madman,_ Snape had said.

“Why would he want to kill you?” Ron asked.

“Dunno. Snape says he was a Voldemort supporter and is mad I killed him off, but he seemed shifty about it.”

“He was a death eater?”

“What’s that?” Hermione asked. 

“It’s the name for You-Know-Who’s supporters,” Ron said, trying to catch a trail of melting ice cream that was dripping down his hand. They were sitting outside Florian’s, who had been delighted to meet Harry’s friends and give them all free treats. “His inner circle and what not. Like—” and here he whispered, “Lucius Malfoy. Yeah, Malfoy’s dad.”

 _Death eater._ Harry thought about the phrase; they wanted to eat death? Destroy death? But so much death had followed Voldemort. He thought with a pang of his parents, whose lives had been so cruelly taken from them—and for what?

“Are you alright?”

Harry looked up from his ice cream to see Ginny watching him carefully, her eyes shadowed with concern.

“I’m fine, Ginny. Just tired.” He smiled and hastily jumped back into the conversation, which quickly moved to Hogwarts and classes and Hogsmeade—Ron was dismayed to learn Harry couldn’t come to Hogsmeade and even more dismayed to learn that Harry had already been _before_ him.

“I didn’t see most of it,” he admitted after Ron started rattling off questions about the Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes. “I only really saw this one pub, the Hog-something.”

“Hog? Can’t’ve been; must’ve been the Three Broomsticks, mate. I think that’s the only pub in the village.”

Harry and the rest went to the Magical Menagerie the next day, where Ron bought a potion for Scabbers, his skin-and-bones rat, and Hermione bought a fat, long-haired orange beast of a cat named Crookshanks. Harry, who’d had enough of cats after his visits with Mrs. Figg, was content to merely let the cat alone, but Ron despised it.

“It’s crazy, Hermione!”

“Crookshanks is a _he,_ Ron, and he’s my pet! You don’t hear me deriding Scabbers!”

“Nah, well, Scabbers doesn’t jump on people’s heads!”

They bickered all through the evening, and Harry found himself chatting more with Ginny, who liked Quidditch and talked about all the competition updates he’d missed over the summer. Her favorite team was the Holyhead Harpies, and she rattled off scores and ranks with a dizzying rapidity that Harry couldn’t really keep up with—but enjoyed nonetheless.

And then, it was September 1st, and Mr. Weasley shoved them all into cars from the Ministry to get them to King’s Cross. Harry’s heart raced with excitement; he was going _home._ The Leaky Cauldron had been great, but there was something safe in Hogwarts, an energy that made Harry feel light and warm and soft inside. His anxiety had been through the roof all summer and while there were certain things he was _not_ looking forward to (the yearly rumors about him, Draco Malfoy’s insults, Snape’s glares during Potions, his inevitable run-in with Voldemort), he couldn’t wait to be back.

King’s Cross was busy, and Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was no exception. Children scrambled between their parents, their friends, and the train. All around him, Harry saw mothers and fathers with their children, hugging and crying and kissing goodbye. For a moment, he imagined what it would’ve been like to have his mum and dad with him, sending him off to his third year. Would he even be the same person had they not been killed?

Before boarding, Mr. Weasley pulled him into a corner, looking flustered, and started to say something about Sirius Black.

“Er—it’s okay, Mr. Weasley. I already know.”

“Well, goodness, I mean, that’s a relief, but how did you find out?”

“Snape told me. Uh, Professor Snape. When he was dropping me off, he mentioned that I needed to be careful. I figured he was just having me on to scare me, or something, but this Sirius Black guy seems intense. I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” Mr. Weasley said, seeming thoroughly relieved. “But, Harry, remember: no matter what, don’t go after him, alright? No matter what you hear. He’s not worth it.”

“Why would I go after him? He’s a _mass murderer,_ Mr. Weasley. I’m thirteen years old.”

“Right you are, Harry! Quick, I hear Molly calling; the train must be boarding.”

Harry hurried quickly to the train and looked out at the crowd of families waiting on the platform. In the back, between a few clusters of figures, Harry thought he saw a black, fluffy dog watching the train. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

↠

On the train, Harry found Ron, Hermione, and Ginny in a compartment together with a blonde-haired girl who was enthusiastically talking to Ginny and an older, shabby-looking man who was asleep by the window. The blonde, who Harry found out was Luna, was a second-year Ravenclaw and deeply intrigued by the man at the window.

“He’s a werewolf,” she said very seriously, shortly after the train left the station. “I can tell from his aura.”

Ron snorted. “Come off it,” he said.

“Daddy wrote a whole article about werewolves,” she said to Ron, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, “and their hair always greys when they’re young.”

“Even if that were true—which it isn’t—that wouldn’t mean that anyone with grey hair when they’re young is a werewolf; it’s false syllogism,” Hermione said.

Luna scoffed, and turned back to the book she was reading, _Fantastic Beasts and How to Find Them._ Ginny stifled a laugh. The train rocked on.

Mid-afternoon, rain started to beat against the window of the carriage. It set a chill, and they were all eager to purchase snacks from the trolley when it came by, swapping Bertie Botts and Chocolate Frogs and other candies between each other. Later, as the sky darkened with night and rain, and as Luna was eagerly telling them how Merlin—whose card she’d found with her Frog—could communicate telepathically with birds, Draco Malfoy and his two friends, Crabbe and Goyle, entered their compartment.

 “Well, look who it is,” Malfoy said, a sneer crossing his pale, pointed face. His hair had grown longer over the summer, Harry noticed, and fell across his forehead instead of stuck in the stiff coif it used to be in. “Potter and his troupe of losers. I see you’ve picked up two new ones, have you? Another Weasley and—oh, it’s Looney!” Crabbe and Goyle laughed, or maybe just grunted; Harry couldn’t really tell.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Ron said, his fists clenched.

“It’s pronounced Loo- _na,_ ” Luna said mildly, blinking up at Malfoy from her book.

Ginny snorted, and shot back at Malfoy, “Why would you be here if you weren’t looking for _actual_ friends? You know, instead of those two lumps behind you.”

Crabbe and Goyle started towards her. Malfoy started to speak but was cut off as the lights flickered in the compartment and the train shuddered.

“What’s happening?” Hermione asked, eyes bright and wide.

“Oh good, are we at the castle already? I’m starving,” Ron said.

The train continued to slow, brakes squealing. Harry wiped the window clear of fog and pressed his face to it to see out.

“I think someone’s out there,” he said. Everything was dark, but he thought he saw some dark figures huddled together. Suddenly, there was a great jolt and the train came to a full stop; sounds of luggage falling to the floor with bangs rippled through the corridor. Then, the lamps went out, and it was pitch black.

“What’s happening, Draco?” Crabbe—or Goyle—grunted.

“I don’t bloody know, Goyle, I can’t see, can I?” So it had been Goyle.

Suddenly, the compartment was smothering Harry. He blinked and blinked but couldn’t see _anything._ It was growing rapidly colder, and goosebumps spread over his arms. He felt like he was back in the cupboard at night, when he couldn’t see anything except, on full moons, the barest hint of light through the cracks. And there were so many people, so many bodies rustling and shifting around him; Malfoy was trying to sit down but sat on Crookshanks, who hissed and jumped on Hermione, who cried out sharply, and Luna was saying something about creatures that ate light, and Ginny was whimpering, and, and, and. His heart was racing, his breaths coming in bursts.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Ron’s hand patted around until it found Harry’s, clasping it warmly. He flinched, and pulled back, gasping at the sudden touch.

“ _Lumos._ ”

From the corner of the compartment, a light flared. Taking in a guttural breath, Harry looked up to see the sleeping man—who Hermione had said was Professor R. J. Lupin—standing and holding his wand out into the darkness. In the shadows, his face looked sunken. The faint scars stretching across his face seemed to glow, slightly paler than the rest of his complexion.

“Who are _you?_ ” Malfoy asked, indignant and a little trembly. _Even Lord Malfoy can get scared,_ Harry thought, still trying to regain his composure. He nodded to Ron, who was looking at him with concern.

“Quiet,” the man—Professor Lupin—said hoarsely, moving towards the door.

The compartment stilled, only their breaths audible, and in the silence, Harry felt an ominous air drift towards them. He couldn’t describe it exactly, but it felt almost like a thick spiderweb was being spun through the train, drawing nearer and nearer to them. He shuddered.

Before Professor Lupin could reach the door, it slid open, a scabbing, decaying hand gripping its edge. A creature entered, its face covered by a cloak. It seemed to slide across the floor towards them, a tall and looming thing. The compartment was freezing, ice cracking along the windows, their breath visible in the air.

He couldn’t see its eyes, but Harry had the feeling they were looking directly at him. The creature drew a great, thunderous breath that seemed to quake through its body, and Harry felt suddenly as though every last happy thing in his body had been sucked from him. Just like his nightmares, he heard an echoing scream, felt it pierce his skin and work its way through his veins. He was falling, falling, from a huge height, and all he could hear was screaming and a high-pitched, echoing laugh. Flashes of images played in front of his eyes: Uncle Vernon shoving him in the cupboard, a flash of green, Aunt Petunia scoffing at his burn from the stovetop, a red-haired woman crying, Dudley laughing at him, red eyes staring at him, Aunt Petunia forcing him into a dress, a wand pointed at him, Uncle Vernon threatening to kill Hedwig… They all spliced together, in quicker and quicker flashes. He would never be happy again; he didn’t know how.

“Harry! Harry!”

Someone was slapping his face. He didn’t have the energy to cower.

“Potter, wake up.”

He was so _cold._

“Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter, can you hear me?”

His eyes flicked open.

There was a crowd of people looking at him; he must have fallen to the floor, because he could see the ceiling above them. Ron—who must have been the one slapping him—Hermione and Ginny were all peering down at him concernedly. Behind them he saw the professor, Malfoy, and Luna.

“What happened?” His voice was a whisper.

“You passed out, Potter. You’ve been sleeping peacefully for _hours,_ ” Malfoy drawled.

“Malfoy, what are you even doing here? Get out!” This was Hermione, who whipped her head around so fast that her hair brushed over Harry’s face as it swung. She smelled like lemon and thyme and honey.

There was a scoff and the sound of the compartment door opening and closing. Groaning, Harry pulled himself to a seated position on the floor, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees.

There was a great cracking noise—the professor had broken a piece of chocolate off a large bar.

“Eat this, Mr. Potter,” the man said gently. “It will help.”

Harry took the chocolate but held it loosely in his palm. Again, he asked, “what happened?”

“That, uh, that _thing_ came in and moved towards you. And then you, well, you turned pale, and then you fell. Just dropped.” Ron sat down next to him, looking pale himself, his freckles pronounced against his pasty cheeks.

“It was a dementor,” the professor said. “A guardian of Azkaban, the wizarding prison.”

“Has it really been hours?”

“No, not at all, Harry—Malfoy was just being stupid.” Hermione still stood, pacing around the compartment. Luna was sitting across from them and trembling; Ginny was holding her hand.  

Professor Lupin cleared his throat. “I need to speak with the driver; I’ll be back soon. Harry: eat.”

“Did anyone else, er, pass out?”

“No,” Ginny said. “But I felt… terrible. It was like, like I was back with Tom again, and couldn’t get out.”

“I remembered my mum,” Luna said quietly, her high voice like a song, albeit a very sad one. “I remembered her dying.”

“Malfoy got all clammy and freaked—it was good to see him knocked down a peg, the right git,” Ron said. Harry laughed half-heartedly; he knew Ron was trying to cheer him up.

“When you fainted, Professor Lupin leapt in front of you,” Hermione said. “And he pointed his wand at the, uh, the dementor, and said, “None of us is hiding Sirius Black. Go. And then he cast something, I’m not sure what though I’m very interested, and a silver shape burst out and forced the thing away. I’ll have to ask him what spell he used; it was quite pretty.”

“Trust Hermione to be talking about spellwork,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Honestly.”

“Are you okay, though, Harry?” Ginny was looking at him from across the compartment, her eyes shadowed and serious.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Ginny. Thanks.” He pushed himself up to stand, trying to hide the tremor in his legs. His whole body felt like soup, weak and thin, a meager thing.

Professor Lupin came back in and smiled at Harry. “That chocolate’s good, I promise. It may not be up to Madame Pomfrey’s standards, but it will make you feel better.”

Harry took a small bite and felt warmth spread through his body. He was still cold, but it made him feel a bit more solid.

“Thanks, professor,” he said.

“We’ll be at Hogwarts shortly. I suggest you put your robes on quickly.” He left the compartment as quickly as he entered.

“What a wild guy,” Ron said. “What class d’you reckon he’s teaching?”

“Defense, of course,” Luna said—though it looked like Hermione had been right behind her, as her mouth was slightly ajar as if to speak. “It’s the only position open, unless you consider Mermish, but sadly I don’t think that has been taught for quite some time. I wonder how he will teach on full moons.”

Ginny and Harry shared a look, and Ron snorted. Hermione simply looked contemptuous and a bit upset she hadn’t been the one to speak first.

When they left the train, the rain was turning to ice, and they ran to the stagecoaches; only Hermione had actually ridden them before, so they followed her lead. As they climbed into one, lightning crashed around them and Harry saw the front of the coach outlined in vivid detail for just a second. Instead of horses carrying the coaches, he saw two black, skeletal creatures with wings. Every part of them looked sharp and threatening. “What are those?” he asked.

“What are what, Harry?”

“The, the horse-things pulling the carriages.”

“Nothing’s pulling the carriages, Harry,” Hermione said, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind when he fainted. “They’re enchanted to carry themselves.”  
“No,” Luna said primly. “They’re thestrals. I talked to Hagrid about them last year; he didn’t believe that they were distant relations of the centaurs, but I told him.”

Hermione glowered.

“How come only you and I can see them, then?” Harry said. He wasn’t sure if Luna seeing them made him more sane, or less.

“Oh, it’s because you and I have seen people die. Only once we glimpse mortality can we glimpse the beasts that carry us there, that’s what Daddy always says.”

After that, it was a cold and awkward ride up to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought it interesting that Harry didn't see thestrals right away; he'd seen his parents and Quirrel die--plus Tom's spirit, if you count that as death.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First classes, and another conversation with Snape.

Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall pulled Harry and Hermione out of the crowd before they made it to the Great Hall. McGonagall disappeared with Hermione, and Madame Pomfrey forced Harry to eat so much chocolate he felt slightly sick.

“I’m fine!” he kept insisting. “Honestly, Madame Pomfrey, I feel better!”

And he did, for the most part. He’d gotten used to rolling with the punches, taking in as many traumatic events as he good. He just wanted to go sit with Ron and talk to everyone he’d missed over the summer.

“You’re dreadfully thin, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey tutted. “I expected that given your temporary housing this summer, you would have taken better care of yourself—I know that Tom loves to fill his guests with food.”

Harry had been a bit sad to leave Tom, who, despite his great stature and Dursley-ish appearance, was quite gentle and kind and _did_ make excellent dinners.

“Does everyone know about that?” he muttered, scowling. Of course Snape would tell the whole school about what had happened.

“Not at all. I know because Professor Snape had to add relevant information to your file after delivering you.”

“ _Relevant information?_ ” He’d said he wouldn’t tell. That lying, filthy, horrible—

“Information regarding your change of location and the neglect you faced with your Muggle relatives.”

Oh. That information.

“I am not one to pry, Mr. Potter, but mental health is just as important as physical health. I don’t want to see you in here with another boneless arm or Quidditch injury, but if you need a space to talk or need assistance with your dreams, please come and see me. Honestly, Mr. Potter, there will always be a bed reserved for you.” She chuckled, her normally stern face cracking a bit.

Scuffing his shoes on the floor, Harry asked politely if he could leave; he didn’t like where this conversation had ended up. He found Hermione waiting in the hall—she looked ecstatic over something but wouldn’t tell him what McGonagall had said. They slid into seats next to Ron and began filling their plates.

That night, Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror after his shower. There were private rooms for each shower, so he didn’t need to worry about anyone seeing so long as he brought his clothes and changed in the bathroom. He groaned. His chest had grown slightly larger since he’d last checked—he tried not to because it made him feel nauseous. With a thought, he pulled a sleep shirt on and pointed his wand to it. “ _Diminuendo,”_ he whispered, and the shirt shrunk to stretch tightly against his body, compressing his chest. Smiling, he finished changing and crawled into bed.

“G’night, Harry,” Ron muttered, already drifting off.

“Good night, Ron,” Harry said. It was a while before he fell asleep, worrying about classes and Sirius Black and Snape and thestrals and the black dog that he’d seen out the tower window, trotting along the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

↠

The next morning, Harry’s chest hurt a little as he woke up, but he did some stretches and it felt a bit better. He got dressed quickly and hurried down to breakfast. In the Great Hall, he looked across the tables and saw Malfoy pretending to faint in front of Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and his troupe of friends. Cackling, Parkinson yelled across the Hall, “Hey Potter! The dementors are behind you; watch out!” Nott called, “Is it true you fainted? Actually fainted? God, Potter, you’re such a _girl,_ ” to which Crabbe and Goyle burst out laughing.

“Ignore them,” Hermione said, waving him over from where she was already sitting, a book out next to her plate of fruit and yoghurt.

“Yeah, as if Malfoy didn’t half-faint himself,” Ron scoffed. He pulled over a plate of bacon and loaded some onto his plate eagerly.

Harry’d lost his appetite, though. Did they know? Could they see his chest? No way—it was still bound _and_ hidden beneath his sweater and his robes. But what about his voice? He hadn’t thought of that before; was it getting higher? Ron’s had gotten deeper over the summer and cracked a lot now; everyone would know sooner or later. Hands shaking, he reached for the tea pot to pour a cup. His motions were jerky, though, and he missed the cup, spilling tea all over the table and onto his hands, letting out a shout of surprise.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked, waving her wand and casting _evanesco_ to get rid of the spilled tea. Ron reached over and filled his cup up for him, dropping in two sugar cubes—when had Ron paid attention to how he liked his tea?

“I’m fine,” he said, staring at his hands which were bright red. He’d felt the sharp flash of pain when he’d spilled the tea, but now his hands just felt numb and tingly, a dull ache rocking through them.

“That must really hurt, mate,” Ron said, wincing sympathetically. “Maybe you should go see Madame Pomfrey.”

“NO,” Harry bit out, and Ron looked alarmed. “No,” he said more gently. “I was already in the Hospital Wing yesterday—I can’t go back on the first day of classes. I’d never hear the end of it, she gave me this super long talk about taking care of my physical health or whatever.” This sidetracked Ron, who started whining about Madame Pomfrey and how overprotective she was, and Harry felt immensely relieved that his diversion had worked. Hermione still looked disapproving, but let it slide.

Hagrid came over and made them all very suspicious as to his first class; they would have him this afternoon, and something told Harry they wouldn’t be dealing with cats or toads. Harry watched Hagrid make his way up to the staff table and started when he saw that Snape was looking directly at him, his dark eyes boring deep holes into his own. Harry stared back, trying to figure out what the man wanted—he seemed furious about something, but Harry had no idea what he’d done wrong. When Snape broke his gaze, turning to talk to McGonagall, Harry inhaled deeply and turned back to his toast and tea.

↠

Divination was… interesting. Well, no, it wasn’t even interesting; it was just horribly weird. Harry hated the classroom, which was at the top of a tower and took ages to get to; his chest felt tight and sweaty and his breaths were ragged by the time they got there—with the help of a noisy painted knight named Sir Cadogan. The room itself was stuffy and stifling, filled with thirty-some students crowded into its small space, various incense and potpourri scents mixing together to form something that reminded Harry unfortunately of Aunt Petunia’s perfume, and a random assortment of poufs and armchairs and sofas all squashed together. He pulled Ron and Hermione to a table by the window, where he cracked a window to breathe in some fresh air.

Professor Trelawney seemed a bit dotty and Harry wasn’t sure he trusted the accuracy of her predictions. She had them all get teacups to try studying tea leaves, which Hermione thought was ridiculous—she pointedly refused to drink her tea at all. Ron looked at Harry’s tea leaves and snorted.

“It looks a bit, well, you know,” he said, turning red with the effort not to burst into laughter.

Harry took the cup. It did look “a bit, well, you know,” as Ron had put it: the leaves had formed into a blob with two circles next to a longer shape. His heart sunk—even his tea leaves were mocking him.

“What’s that, dear?” Professor Trelawney came up behind the, reaching a bony hand out for the cup expectantly. Harry passed it to her, grimacing.

“No!” she shouted, dropping the tea cup in shock. It smashed into pieces on the floor by Harry’s feet, and he watched the last dregs of liquid leak out onto the floor. Neville had broken his cup just minutes before, so it wasn’t as shocking as it could have been.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Trelawney.

“My dear boy,” she said, quivering dramatically, “I am afraid, so terribly afraid… you have the Grim.”

“The Grim?” Harry asked while half the class gasped behind him. “What’s the Grim?”

“An _omen!_ ” she exclaimed. “The very worst omen possible, an omen of death! A black, spectral dog that haunts your steps!” Each sentence was punctuated with a deep gasp.

“Oooh, Harry,” Parvati Patil said, “That’s really scary.”

Hermione barked out a laugh. “You honestly believe this?”

Professor Trelawney turned to her with a confused expression. “I’m sorry, my dear, do you have something to say?”

“I don’t think you saw the Grim,” she said confidently. “I think you just want to impress us on the first day and you made it up—you dropped the cup so no one else could see it was the Grim or not.”

Harry and Ron stared at her in awe. She had _never,_ never been so disrespectful to a professor. _Ever._

“Forgive me, my dear,” Trelawney said, her voice high and grating, “But I knew from the moment you walked in that your eyes were not open to the truths around you. You do not look at the world to _experience_ it but to _dissect_ it. If you do not change your mindset, you may never be able to truly see.”

Hermione laughed and seemed like she was going to say something else, but Ron stomped on her foot.

“Now,” Trelawney said, turning to the class, “That will be all for today. Much to think about, yes, much to consider…” She drifted off away from them, and the class slowly started to exit the room.

“What utter tosh,” Hermione said once they were out the door. “Absolute waste of anyone’s time. I can’t believe Dumbledore lets her teach such shit.”

“ _Hermione!_ What’s gotten into you?” Ron was aghast.

“Harry’s got enough going on, doesn’t he? He doesn’t need fake death premonitions spouted at him in front of everyone on top of everything else! Sirius Black is scary enough!”

“I did see a dog, though,” he said, and they turned to look at him. “A big, black one. Over the summer.” He didn’t mention his other sightings of it, in Hogsmeade and by the Forest and once, he’d thought, in the streets of Diagon Alley.

Ron gaped. “Harry, my uncle saw a Grim and died within the day. This is really bad.”

“Has Harry died yet? It was probably just a dog, Ron. She’s just made you paranoid.”

“Yeah, I mean, it let me pet it and stuff,” he said, grinning. “She probably just wanted a chance to predict the boy-who-lived’s death.”

Transfiguration passed slowly, Harry scribbling down notes about Animagi and human transfiguration, trying to ignore the rest of the class watching him as if he might drop at any moment. He kept his head down, not making eye contact with anyone—he didn’t want to see their pity or worry or whatever. In the margins, he sketched a dog with long, matted hair, before realizing what he was doing and scratching it out hurriedly.

Care of Magical Creatures was after lunch, which they all scarfed down hurriedly. They wanted to be the first of the class to be there and possibly do some damage control if needed. The rain from the night before had vanished and, though Harry kept his eyes peeled, there wasn’t any sign that dementors were near. He was relieved; he had been worried he wouldn’t even be able to go outside until Black was captured.

Hagrid refused to tell them what was happening until the class was starting, so their efforts were useless. Still, Harry had missed Hagrid, and it was good to talk to him for a bit before the Slytherins showed up. He knew the last year had been hard on Hagrid, too, what with being sent away under suspicion of being the Heir to Slytherin (what a ridiculous thought), so Harry wanted to make sure he was okay—he seemed happy enough, brushing off any of Harry’s questions with cheery answers.

The class did _not_ go well. Hagrid introduced them to hippogriffs, huge horse-bird morphs that had magnificently fearsome beaks and were sticklers for good manners. Somehow, Harry ended up being the first student to ride one, which was terrifying and thrilling all at once. It wasn’t too bad once he was up in the air and secure, but with every turn or dive his heart thrummed with the knowledge he could die at any minute. Life was already like that, he thought. There were all sorts of things trying to kill him every year—might as well get used to it.

And then Malfoy had to go and get himself kicked by Buckbeak—the same hippogriff Harry had ridden. He put up a right fuss about it, wailing and screaming and crying, and it reminded Harry of Dudley whenever he didn’t get his way. Hagrid was distraught, picking him up and rushing him to Madame Pomfrey. Smiling grimly, Harry thought Malfoy deserved the injury—he’d insulted Buckbeak, after all, and the bird simply wasn’t afraid to stand up to bullies. But he was so worried for Hagrid. Teaching had been his dream, and after such a rotten first class, Harry knew he’d be devastated.

↠

By Thursday, Harry’s chest throbbed every time he bent or moved too quickly. He’d taken the shirt off to shower, but then slipped it right back on each day. He didn’t like the thought of anyone seeing, even at night; what if Ron woke before him and noticed something? It hurt, though. The skin underneath seemed to be permanently darker than the rest of his skin, and tender. But it was worth it if it meant no one would know.

Thursday was also Malfoy’s first day back in classes. His arm was still bandaged and in a sling, and he was milking it for all it was worth, but his eyes twinkled with an energy that Harry knew was malicious. Hagrid had sobbed for hours on Monday evening, convinced he was going to be sacked. Harry, Ron, and Hermione weren’t looking forward to the next class because they knew Hagrid would be an absolute mess.

In potions, Snape made Harry and Ron prepare Malfoy’s ingredients. Harry tried to slice the shrivelfigs as fast as he could, but every movement made his chest ache. As he was sliding them back over to Malfoy, a sharp pain bloomed in his chest, as if it was piercing between his ribs. He gasped sharply and curled into himself, his hands clutched to his ribs.

“Alright, mate?” Ron asked next to him.

“Did you over exert yourself, Potter? I knew you were weak but it’s just sad at this point,” Malfoy sneered. Snape, overhearing, turned briskly to them.

“Potter!” he barked. “With what ailment are you choosing to disturb the class with now? Must you always seek desperately for attention?”

The pain was reducing, and Harry straightened up slowly, glaring at Snape.

“What about Malfoy making us cut his ingredients, sir? Isn’t that disruptive as well?”

“10 points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, for your insolence.” Ron groaned, slumping into his seat.

Harry supposed that wasn’t the worst outcome of that situation, and turned back to his potion, wincing slightly. Snape watched him like a hawk, and apparently saw something he didn’t like. His eyes narrowed, and he said venomously, “And a detention, I think, for your continued disrespect. Stay after class.”

“What!” Ron was outraged, but Harry shushed him. It wasn’t worth it—Snape was just an irritating bastard and they couldn’t do anything to change that. At least he’d kept his word thus far and not told anyone about, well, anything, really. Except for Madame Pomfrey, it didn’t seem like he’d passed along what had happened over the summer to anyone. But if he kept fighting him… well, he didn’t trust Snape _that_ much.

Harry and Ron’s potions were complete disasters. Hermione’s was good, as was Malfoy’s, but Snape only complimented the latter. Malfoy preened, and Harry and Ron shot him disgusted looks.

“Go on, Ron, Hermione,” Harry said as class was wrapping up. “I’ll catch up with you after class; don’t worry.” The two left him, Hermione shooting him a concerned glance, Ron a sympathetic one. Glumly, he made his way to the front of the classroom, where Snape was sorting their vials into a box. He looked up at Harry, and, seeing that no one else was in the room, flicked his wand. Harry flinched as the door to the classroom slammed shut behind him.

“Do you have something you’d like to tell me, Potter?”

“Er… no? Sir?” Harry had no clue what Snape was on about.

“What was that with your chest earlier?”

“Oh. Oh, that. Nothing, sir, just a small pain. Probably from Quidditch practice.”

“Do not lie to me, boy,” Snape hissed menacingly. “I know Gryffindor has not had practice yet this year. I also know that while you are prone to placing yourself in harm’s way without a care, you also tend to see Pomfrey in regards to any ailment. So this—” and here he gestured towards Harry’s torso, “must be addressed.”

“I, er, really don’t know what happened. Must’ve twisted a muscle or something.” It was a feeble attempt and he knew it. “Why do you care?”

Snape looked caught off guard by the question, his eyes widening slightly, but just for a moment. “I do not _care,_ Mr. Potter. I am a professor obliged to inspect the wellbeing of his students while under his tutelage. What is under your sweater?”

“What? I—That’s—You can’t ask that!”

Snape stepped towards him, and Harry stumbled back. Was the door sealed from the inside? He considered trying to run for it, but if it was locked he’d just look like an idiot.

“Potter. I am not asking as an endeavor to humiliate you, harm you, or cause any ill. I am asking because, given that I am the only adult aware of your… circumstances, I have a certain responsibility towards your health. If you do not tell me, I will be forced to involve Madame Pomfrey, which I assure you, neither of us wants.”

Harry faltered. Under his misdirection and vague phrasing, he thought Snape was being, once again, somewhat nice.

“I didn’t want anyone to see my chest,” he whispered finally.

“What did you do?”

“I… I shrunk a shirt to… to pack it all down, I guess. To hide it.”

Snape let out what might have been a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have you been taking any precautions?”

“Precautions, sir?”

“How long have you been binding?”  
“Er. Every day, sir. I take it off to shower.” Harry felt humiliated. Did he really have to talk about this? To Snape?

“And you have just been suffering through the pain? Do not be a fool, boy. It is not worth it to damage your body, to warp your ribcage!”

“It is!” Harry yelled, wrapping his arms around his waist. “It is worth it! No one can know! You know and that’s bad enough! But if everyone knows then everything’s over. Everyone will hate me and I won’t have _anything_ left!”

Snape faltered. “Why on Earth would you think that?”  
“I—” Harry found himself on the brink of being more honest with Snape than with anyone in his whole life and reeled back quickly. “I just don’t want anyone to know,” he said lamely.

There was a pause. Then, “Very well. If you do not wish to tell Madame Pomfrey” —Harry vehemently shook his head— “then you must be willing to confide in me. Potter, you cannot continue binding as you have been. Your body will not last, as evidenced by today’s class. Fortunately, for people such as you there are… options.”

“Options, sir?” Harry had never heard of anyone like him in the Wizarding World.

“Yes. Potions, enchantments. They are much more effective than the Muggle treatments and procedures, and much safer. In terms of binding, there is a low-level enchantment that could work for a while. It will not be permanent as with potions, but it will effectively compress your chest without damaging your skin tissue or affecting your bone structure.”  
“What is it, sir? Could you tell me?”  
“There is a text available with more sufficient and detailed explanation than I could give. I will send it to you so that you can read it, with notes regarding the charm—I expect that, unlike your school texts, you will actually read and comprehend the material.”

“I—thank you, sir.”

“Do not thank me for what is a necessary deed, Potter. I expect you to promptly rid yourself of your injurious methods, and if I detect you binding unhealthily again I will not hesitate to tell Pomfrey and the rest of the staff. It would not do well for Dumbledore’s favorite student to suffer from unnecessary ills.”

“Yes, sir.” He tried not to say thank you again; it was such a reflex for him, the politeness. He thought bitterly that it was the one thing the Dursleys had taught him and it still didn’t do him much good.

“You may go.” Harry turned to leave as the door opened a crack. “Oh, and Potter—your detention will be with Filch. Tomorrow night, 8 o’clock sharp.”

↠

That night, Harry found a pile of books, a nondescript canister, and a short letter waiting at the foot of his bed. Opening the letter, he read:

_Potter,_

_Attached you will find a few select books on wizards, witches, and wixen such as yourself. In them you may find some ideas that you find_ tempting _to try—resist your childish urges. If there is something you truly need, consult me. I will not find you harming yourself in a foolish attempt at self-transfiguration or modification; if I do, you will not live far past that._

_The canister is a star grass salve. Apply it nightly to your back and chest for pain relief._

_Professor Snape_

There was a short post-script, reading:

_The books are disguised as potions texts and safeguarded towards your magical signature; simply tap them with your wand, and they will open._

Harry tapped the top book, which on the cover read _Remedial Potions for the Ingredient-Confused Wizard._ On the inside, the title read _Gender and Magic: The Re-configuration of Gender Social Structures Through the First Half of the 19 th Century in Wizard Britain _by Silas Sedgewick _._ It was a hefty title and a hefty book, with tiny, densely-packed script and at least an inch thick. Smiling, Harry started to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're to chapter eight now in the original text! I skipped Lupin's class for now but don't worry--he'll be back. I hope you enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape talks to Lupin, Harry talks to Ron, Luna talks to Harry.

Snape was brooding over a pot of tea when Lupin entered the first-floor staff room. It was a cozy room, with a constantly tended fireplace with several sofas and armchairs, as well as a dining area—it couldn’t very well be called a kitchen, as you merely requested food from the house elves, but there was a row of cabinets with various teas and coffees and pastries always available, and a few round oak tables at which the professors could read or grade papers or chat.

Snape very adamantly did not want to chat with Lupin, but he also did not want to continue to deal with Potter on his own.

“Lupin,” he called across the room from the armchair in which he sat. “Tea?” He pointed towards the pot sitting on the side table next to him.

“That would be lovely, Snape, thank you.” Looking cautious, the ridiculously tall man took the chair opposite Snape and poured himself a cup, sniffing it and looking up with surprise. “Oolong? And blackberry, I think, but there’s something else.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “At last, you’ve found a use for your filthy secondary _talents_. It’s an oolong blend of blackberry and sage, with a few raspberry leaves in the mix.”

The werewolf didn’t seem to mind his veiled insult, merely taking a sip appreciatively.

“How have you been, ah, settling in, Lupin?” Snape _hated_ this. He did not care for pleasantries—or really anything resembling a conversation with the scar-stricken man. They had not spoken in years, not since shortly after the mutt had been imprisoned. Snape had thrown a fit when Dumbledore told him that Lupin was going to be teaching this year, but he was endeavoring—and not fully failing—to comport himself in a manner slightly more composed than in his school years.

“Quite well, thank you. But I have not known you to care about my wellbeing or, for that matter, anyone else’s. What is this about?” Lupin was _also_ quite good at dispatching sharp insults in a mild manner. Snape growled.

 “The Potter boy. What interactions have you had?”

“What do you mean?”  
“I mean, does he trust you? Have you told him of your relationship to his parents? Do you intend to extend yourself beyond the role of a professor?”

“Why, Snape, I can’t imagine why you would care.” Lupin set his tea down and looked closely at him. Of all the members of James Potter’s stupid gang, Lupin had always been the most careful and reserved. Snape had a nagging suspicion he would be a good chess player. Before he could justify his questions, however, Lupin continued. “I shared a compartment with him on the train, wherein I protected him and his friends from a dementor searching for Sirius Black. Additionally, I did have him in class the other day—my apologies for Longbottom’s boggart, though I’m sure you understand your own blame in that event. No, I have not told Harry anything yet of my relationship to his father—or to you, for that matter. I do not want to interfere in his life, nor do I think I am a suitable mentor for him.”

“You protected him from a dementor?”

“Well, yes—I wasn’t about to let his soul be sucked from his body, was I? He had a nasty reaction, too. Very upset. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I scampered. Does this satisfy your curiosity?”

It did, and it didn’t. Now that Lupin had admitted he was entirely inept at dealing with emotional teenagers, Snape didn’t feel he could effectively argue why the werewolf should be responsible for Potter. He’d hoped he could force the burden onto Lupin, guilt him into befriending the boy and, with any luck, learning his secrets and assuming responsibility for all his issues and ridiculous anxieties. He’d lost this round, however, and had no answer for Lupin. He regretted even starting the conversation—and sharing his tea, which was a blend he’d concocted personally.

“I will have your Wolfsbane ready for you a week prior to the full moon; you will take it once every day until then. The boy has nothing left of his father; consider doing your dead friend a damn service by taking care of his kid.” With that, he swept from the room, seething with the frustration of dealing with Potter’s stupid secrets.

↠

Harry had been excited to go to Lupin’s class after seeing what he could do on the train, but it had been a bit of a disappointment. Professor Lupin had shown them all a boggart, and they’d taken turns battling it. At least, the rest of the class had. When it had been Harry’s turn, Lupin blocked him and let Neville finish it off. Harry wasn’t jealous, not really—Neville needed a confidence boost, after all, and the class had certainly helped—but it seemed like Lupin thought he was weak or something. So he couldn’t face a dementor, so what? He was sure he would’ve been able to master a _riddikulus_ just as well as Neville or Ron.

He felt a growing resentment for the professor, which he tried to squash but could not. In the coming classes, they studied a variety of other interesting creatures and Harry did enjoy learning about them—although it seemed more like Hagrid’s class than DADA—but he couldn’t stop a smirk at some of Malfoy’s comments during class. He didn’t like it when he made fun of Lupin’s clothing, as that hit a little too close to home for him, but the professor didn’t even _look_ at him. He glanced over him, never called on him when he raised his hand—which was rarely, given Hermione’s aptitude—and seemed to ignore him entirely. He knew it wasn’t nice, but Malfoy’s comments soothed his heart a little, made the classes easier to bear. Hermione and Ron thought his attitude ridiculous, as they both enthusiastically loved the class, but he couldn’t help it.

None of his classes were really any good. Divination was absolute rubbish, so he and Ron and Hermione primarily talked and played wizard’s hangman during it—until Trelawney came over, in which case they made random assertions of Harry’s future pain, sorrow, and death. She loved it, and their grades were excellent. Hagrid was still miserable, especially after Malfoy got his father involved, threatening to sack Hagrid from Hogwarts entirely. His classes became even worse than Divinations; all they did week after week was feed flobberworms and measure their growth.

Potions was potions—Harry had always struggled with it even though he was quite good at cooking—but every so often Snape would shoot him less of a venomous glare and more of a curious, questioning gaze that caught Harry off guard. He’d found the compressing spell in one of the books Snape had given him— _Tips and Tricks for the Non-Conforming Wizard_ by G Shadleigh—and had gotten it to work quite well after a few attempts. The spell felt like a smooth strip of satin wrapped around his chest, light and cool. Naked, there wasn’t any visible difference, but with a shirt or sweater on he looked completely flat. Not sure if he was supposed to or not, he’d sent a thank you note with Hedwig which he’d seen Snape receive in the Great Hall during breakfast, but there had been no response. That was fine, he hadn’t really expected anything, but he wasn’t sure how to act around the professor now. He still berated and mocked Harry for his terrible potions, but his other popular insults—about his appearance, his tardiness, his fame—had tapered down to just one or two a week.

All in all, though, he just didn’t care about any of his classes this term. He found himself idly doodling across his parchments instead of writing essays, he stopped reading his textbooks, and in class he more or less ignored the lectures. Despite that, Harry ended up in the library more than he ever had any past year. He felt comfortable in there, hidden behind rows and rows of shelves. There was a nice, wide-windowed alcove that had a few squat armchairs, and sometimes he would sequester himself there, brushing off Ron and Hermione, and read one of the books Snape had given him. They were all so interesting. The history went back centuries—not only was he not the first person at Hogwarts to deal with this, but there were records of magical trans folk all the way back when Hogwarts was first founded.

Quidditch was losing its interest, too. The first practice of the year, Harry had felt energized and excited. Wood had given a rousing speech practically _begging_ for them to win the Cup this year, and they had all been determined. But on his way back to the castle, he’d looked out to the Forest and seen, once again, a large shaggy dog. For a moment, he considered going towards it and seeing if it was a mirage or a figment of his imagination, but then Fred and George had come up behind him and started chatting. When he looked back, the dog was gone. Since then, every practice had been overshadowed by anxiety.

All in all, Harry could tell something was different. He was pulling back from everything, even his friends. He felt… lost. Empty, a little bit. He wasn’t sure what was happening—part of him wondered if this was another ploy from Voldemort but cast that off as wishful thinking. If he could blame Voldemort for everything going wrong in his life, things would be so much easier.

But nothing was easy, and every day his heart grew heavier. He felt mired in a swamp of confusion and disillusion.

“Oi, Harry. You all right?”

Harry stirred from his reverie. He’d been perched on the windowsill in the dorms, watching the moon rise higher into the sky.

“Yeah, I’m fine, mate, thanks.” He swapped smiles with Ron, who sat down next to him on Seamus’ empty bed.

“You’ve been really distant lately, mate. Is something going on? Is something bothering you?”

Harry looked seriously at Ron. It had taken Ron a lot of effort to ask, he could tell. Emotions weren’t something Ron was super great at, so for him to reach out like this was heartening.

“I’m sorry, Ron. Everything feels overwhelming right now, I guess. With Black and classes and dementors and… I dunno. It just feels like everything’s going wrong.”

“Hey, maybe one of Trelawney’s miserable predictions is happening for once. D’you reckon you’re going to be murdered by a herd of angry centaurs or trampled by a hippogriff?”  
Harry laughed. “Definitely the hippogriff.” He jumped nimbly off the sill and retreated back to his own bed.

“You can always talk to me, you know? I know it’s like… lame or whatever. But I’m your friend. Hermione’s your friend. Even if _we_ are always fighting, we’re not fighting with you.”

“Yeah—it kinda feels like a war between Crookshanks and Scabbers right now.” Harry cracked a grin to show he wasn’t truly upset—though maybe he was, just a little. It had only been a few weeks and already he could tell the divide between Ron and Hermione was growing larger, strained by their pets.

“That’s Crookshanks fault, Harry. I’m telling you, that cat has it in for Scabbers! He’s crazy!”

Harry laughed and reassured Ron that yes, of course Crookshanks was a horrible monster and not just a cat whose natural instinct was to chase a rat. He went to sleep still smiling, warm from the thought of Ron’s care.

↠

Harry burst from sleep panting and gasping for breath. He was cloaked in sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead in clumps. He fumbled for the water pitcher on the side table, spilling a little as he poured a glass, and then another.

His dream had sucked him in and held him; he had tried so hard to wake up, over and over and over. In it, he had been talking to Snape and telling him _everything._ He remembered distinctly that his feet were bare and cold; he had been sitting in the courtyard, and Snape had been listening—until he stood and shoved Harry off the bench. He toppled over, his arm swinging out, his elbow catching the worst of the crash. Instead of Snape, the huge dog stood over him. Its mouth was wide open, jaws dripping saliva and teeth glinting in the moonlight. The dog seemed to grow larger and larger above him, a looming thing ready to eat him. As it gripped him in its jaws, a shadowy figure stepped into his line of sight. The figure had long, shaggy black hair and a leering grin. “Hello, Harry,” Sirius Black said. “I’ve been waiting so long to see you.” And as he fell apart inside the dog’s mouth, all he could hear was Black’s laugh, a demonic and wicked sound. He felt his body sliding down the dog’s throat, each part still transmitting nerves and pain and fear and absolute chaos. And then he’d woken up.

Harry sat with his legs folded on his bed. He bent over his legs, touching his head to the blanket, breathing hard.

As he grew calmer, breathing in and out slowly—the _Tips and Tricks_ book had some lessons on dealing with social anxiety, too, which was wildly helpful even though he didn’t consider himself an anxious person—he looked out the window across from his bed. The moon was at its highest point, the dark still all-encompassing. He groaned. If it had been remotely close to morning, Harry could’ve just started getting ready for the day and start his trip down to the Great Hall early. But it couldn’t be past three.

Slipping socks on, he padded lightly over to the window and watched the stars blink in and out above him. He thought with a small smile of Hedwig and wondered if she was out hunting. He imagined her, somewhere in the forest, swooping over a mouse or a frog, her bright wings outstretched. Suddenly, he missed her desperately, missed the chance to talk to her every day like he did at the Dursleys. Was he _seriously_ missing the Dursleys?

Glancing down at the forest, his heart caught in his throat. There, between two large firs next to Hagrid’s hut, was a dog. A huge, shaggy, black dog. Harry couldn’t see, but he’d bet his life that its teeth were massive, shining things—and, if Trelawney was right, it was his life that was on the table at the moment.

Harry felt a rush of anger swoop over him. How dare a stupid dog control his life, make him afraid even to fall asleep? His Gryffindor courage—which he knew was mainly stupidity and rage at this point—roared in his chest, and he tiptoed back to his bed, pulled on some shoes and his invisibility cloak, and slipped out the door.

↠

Luna had never slept well. She had been thrilled when she was sorted into Ravenclaw, a house she imagined filled with books and curiosity and people to share her interests with, but instead it became another house in which she was lonely.

Her mother had taught her so much before she died, so much about the world and the things in it, and sometimes her only solace when she could not sleep was to turn to nature. She would slip out of her dorms and into the dark of night, wander down to the Forbidden Forest or to the lake, and rest.

Most of the time, nobody noticed. Sometimes, people did.

When Filch found her, she got detention which was suffocating—she hated being stuck in a tiny room doing pointless, menial things, especially with a man who seemed to relish hurting children.

When Professor Flitwick found her he would send her right back up to bed, usually accompanied with a short quote or poem that was on his mind; he hated taking points from his house just as much as Snape did.

And when Snape found her, well. The first time he’d taken 20 points and snapped at her to go back upstairs. The second, he’d taken 50 points—no one had liked her very much after that, which just led to her slipping out even _more_ often. The last time, Snape found her just as she’d made it down the castle steps. She’d been crying. Quietly, but crying nonetheless, and hadn’t noticed when he stepped in front of her with a sneer on his face.

He hadn’t taken points that time. Instead, he asked her where she went, and she told him. “I visit my friends in the Forest,” she’d said, “to make sure that they are happy and safe.” He’d stared at her for a while, then, and she’d seen in his eyes that he was inside her mind, probing through it carefully. She let him. She had nothing to hide—he could have just asked more questions.

When he withdrew, he looked at her with a slight frown on his face.

“I apologize for searching, rather than asking, Ms. Lovegood. That was rude of me.”

“It’s quite alright, Professor. Sometimes the answers we’re looking for have questions we’re afraid to ask.”

“No one will be back to patrol this area for another two hours. Make sure you are on time to class tomorrow.”

He let her go. That night, she walked into the forest with a free heart, light and bouncy and full of song. She visited her favorite spot—a small, sage-covered clearing in the forest that hosted a burrow of mooncalves. They were shy creatures, and only came out of their dens on full moons to dance and sing, but Luna liked to sit near their burrow and talk to them even when they wouldn’t come up to see her. She knew they got lonely down there, waiting for their moon to rise, and liked to sit with them and let them know the world was still alive above them.

This night, though, she was the one to find someone else.

“Harry?” The small figure sitting in the clearing in front of her whipped his head around at her voice.

“Oh. Hi, Luna. What are you doing here?”

“Wandering. It’s often easier than sleeping, don’t you agree?”

  
“Hm.” He hummed and looked back out into the clearing. Looking at Harry, she noticed he seemed _less_ than usual, as if he was fading from view bit by bit.

“Are you lonely?” she asked. She sat down too, a little ways away so she wouldn’t touch him—she could tell he wouldn’t like that.

“No. I came looking for something.”

  
“I often find that I am loneliest when I am looking for something.”

  
“Oh. Then maybe?”

She smiled at him. “What were you looking for?”

  
“A dog. A big one. Do you come here a lot at night? Have you seen one?”

“I’ve seen lots of dogs, and even more dog-shaped things which are not dogs at all; which one are you looking for?”

“Er, an actual dog, I think. It’s big and has lots of matted black fur. It’s been following me, I think, since summer. I keep seeing it everywhere, and Trelawney says it’s an omen but I don’t want it to be so I came to find it and tell it to stop.”

  
“I’ve never found arguing with the future to be particularly effective,” Luna said. Harry laughed a little, and she smiled. She hadn’t been making a joke, but she was glad he was happy; he looked sad. “I think I’ve seen him, though. Big eyes, big teeth?”

Harry nodded eagerly.

“Well, I don’t know if you’ll be able to meet him; he’s quite skittish. But he likes chicken, so if you sneak some from dinner he may come find you.” Luna was glad to help Harry. He had been nice to her on the train. Ginny liked him a lot, and she liked Ginny a lot, so it made sense to like him as well.

“Will you be visiting the forest often?”

“I dunno. It was kind of reckless to just run down here, but I saw the dog and thought… well, I wasn’t really thinking. Anyway, if Snape catches me he’ll murder me I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh no,” Luna said very seriously. “Professor Snape will understand if you tell him the truth. He always lets me come when he finds me and never ever takes points.”

Harry scoffed. “He’d never do that with me. Probably take 100 points before even asking any questions.”

“Well, that’s the trouble with adults,” Luna said. “They’ve forgotten how to ask the right questions; sometimes you just have to tell them anyway.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Luna-appreciation day! Harry confides in someone, and discovers something he should have thought about a long time ago.

Harry and Luna fell into a routine of meeting at the foot of the stairs. Not every night, but frequent enough for Harry enough to start _trusting_ Luna. She was a bit odd, sure, but she was honest and sincere, two traits Harry had found lacking in a lot of people. And she genuinely helped on those nights when he couldn’t sleep or breathe or stay in the castle one second longer. His body felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like a snake’s skin that needed to be shed—but stuck tightly to his skeleton nonetheless.

At the beginning of October, he started his period again. The books had prepared him for this, of course. They’d explained that many witches themselves used spells to make the week more comfortable, instant-cleaning spells and such that prevented the need for pads and tampons. Harry had been relieved: he’d been afraid he’d have to steal from Hermione or Ginny, which he didn’t want to do, or ask Madame Pomfrey for help, which he also didn’t want to do.

But though he learned how to control it in some ways, nothing helped the cramps or the mood swings. He found himself snapping at his friends for random reasons—Ron ate too loudly, Hermione asked too many questions—and only belatedly realizing how rude he’d been. He was easily depressed, constantly unmotivated, and generally irritable. He felt nauseous all day, either unable to eat anything or constantly hungry no matter how much he ate. On the first day, he had to dash to the toilet and throw up during History of Magic. Binns didn’t notice, but he had to lie to Ron and Hermione when they asked, which made him feel guilty. All in all, it was vile. He hated every bit of it, felt dirty and gross and a _fraud,_ and wanted nothing more than for it to stop. The potions and such for that process were a little out of his depth, though, and he wasn’t stupid enough to talk to Snape about stuff like that.

But it seemed like—well, maybe, he couldn’t be sure, but he hoped—Luna might be the type of person to understand if he talked about this with her. She knew about all sorts of things that no one else believed in: Crumple-horned Snorkacks, Blibbering Humdingers, Nargles and Wrackspurts—so maybe she would understand this, too. At some points the cramps were so bad he considered going to Madame Pomfrey’s and asking for her help, maybe faking an injury for a pain potion. Lying was worth it if he felt better, right? But he knew she probably had spells that could detect what was really going on, and he wasn’t quite ready to tell her the truth, though Snape had nagged him about it several times.

So one night, sitting by the lake with Luna, both of them wrapped in a thick quilt and his invisibility cloak, he asked her. “What is… How does… What does a period feel like? I mean, it’s kind of awkward, but like, what do you do when it hurts?”

“That’s an odd question,” she said, staring out at the star-reflecting water. Far out, they could see the tip of a tentacle poking curiously out into the night air. For a while, they watched it bob, until she spoke again. “Harry, I thought you knew. I don’t have periods.”  
“What? Like, you’re too young?”  
“No—I wasn’t born that way. Mum used to say that I’d been born to prove the world wrong. I’m a witch, Harry, but I was born a boy. I guess—I never really thought about _not_ being a girl, I just _was_ one. Just like you, but the opposite, I suppose.”

Harry turned to look at her. Luna was trans, too? And she knew about him? He had no clue how her mind worked—she just seemed to _know_ things, even the most vulnerable hidden things, but treated them as every day and commonplace, nothing to be alarmed or secretive about at all. Slowly, he filtered the information, dissecting it and trying to stay calm.

“How did you know about me?” he finally asked, deciding that was the most important question.

“Well, I could tell from the start. Don’t worry—most people can’t; I’ve just always been able to recognize people like us. Sometimes the sprites talk to me, and help me see, but most of the time I just know.”

Harry didn’t ask what sprites were or how they talked to Luna; he trusted that whatever explanation she gave, he wouldn’t get it. “Er, okay. I didn’t know, Luna, I’m sorry for asking.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” she said gently.

“Does anyone else know about you?”

“A few people. My family, of course—after mum died, Daddy did his best to help me adjust and still learn about being a girl. And the professors all know, Daddy made sure of that, so they could help me if I needed something. And some Ravenclaws _—_ I didn’t mean for them to find out, but they did. They’re quite cruel, sometimes. It’s not spread far beyond them, but I think a few other students know.”

Luna said all this very matter-of-factly, and Harry was stunned. So many people knew. Even her parents knew—or, had known, he thought, with a wince. Would his parents have accepted him if they had been alive?

“I’m sure your parents would have loved you very much,” Luna said.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“No. But you looked sad, and I thought I could guess why.”

“Oh.”

The night was cold. A dull breeze ran through the air. The leaves were crisp and starting to rouge, to mottle as the seasons changed. Harry shivered. Luna leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed gently. Harry let the moment take him, let the cool air soothe his nerves as he thought.

Eventually, he asked, “do the other students, the ones who know… do they hurt you?”

Luna looked uncomfortable for the first time since he’d met her. She shifted and turned into herself a bit.

“Sometimes. Some of them don’t like me very much. They… sometimes they steal my stuff, or call me names, or try to block me from the girl’s rooms.”

“Why don’t you tell someone? Surely Professor Flitwick would help you, or another professor.”

Luna smiled and laughed, a sad little laugh.

“How many people have _you_ told, Harry? Just because the professors know doesn’t mean they all _care._ And even if they did, there are some things that are harder to say than others.”

Harry nodded, a lump in his throat.

“But Ginny’s helped a lot,” Luna said. “She found me once when some upperclassmen were taunting me, and she yelled at them and took me to the Hospital Wing. Since then she’s always looked out for me in class. Ginny’s really nice and lovely and sweet—I do love her a lot.”

Harry agreed with Luna that Ginny truly was a wonderful friend. Sometimes it was hard to think of Ginny; he would look at her and see only memories, the dark-shadowed basilisk’s chamber and her thin lifeless body, Tom Riddle’s hollow memory standing over her, leering as he sapped her strength. The memories from last spring were hard to shake, and they _hurt._ Despite that, though, he was learning to look at her and see her as a friend rather than a victim, as someone who was alive and thriving and who understood him better than most because of their shared experience.

“I never had a friend before Ginny,” Luna said. “It’s nice to have you, too.”

Luna tended to say things like these that made Harry want to cry just a little bit. She was so gentle and vulnerable, so unafraid to be herself or to say what she thought. He wished he could be like that.

“D’you think I should tell Madame Pomfrey?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, twisting her hand into his. “She’s rather quite kind once you get past her stiff behavior—she’s just tired of dealing with silly students all the time, I think. She’s married to a woman, did you know? She told me once, when I was overnight in the hospital wing. I think she’ll understand perfectly well, Harry.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll try. Soon.” His heart pounded at the thought, but he’d told Luna, right? Even if she’d already know beforehand, she accepted him, and he accepted her. And Snape had been quite polite about it, even if he was a git. So maybe Madame Pomfrey would be okay. Eventually.

“Thanks, Luna,” he murmured. She squeezed his hand tighter in response.

They stayed there for a bit longer, until Luna started to fall asleep on his shoulder. He gently nudged her awake, and together they trudged back to the castle under the light of the moon.

↠

A few days later, Harry woke up earlier than normal. He showered quickly, got dressed, made sure all his charms were in place, and left the Gryffindor tower. Hardly anyone was up yet, just a few upperclassmen who were sitting by the fireplace and chatting, and they didn’t spare him a glance as he walked past.

At the Great Hall, he stopped at the entrance. Only a smattering of students were already down for breakfast, looking bleary-eyed and dozy as they doled themselves porridge and eggs. A flash of blonde hair caught his eye; Luna was walking towards her seat at the Ravenclaw table, her hair bouncing behind her. As if she knew he was there, she turned to smile and wave at him. He waved back, returning her smile. It was weird how quickly they’d become friends, but he felt he could tell her nearly anything. She wasn’t the one he was planning to talk to today, though.

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked past the Great Hall and further down the corridor to the hospital wing. Steeling himself, he pushed the heavy doors open and slid inside. The hospital wing was always bright and clean, especially in the mornings when the sun shone through the huge window panes and dappled the floor with warmth. The sun was still beginning its rise into the sky, but already the light was streaming onto the walls.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter! What can I do for you today?” Madame Pomfrey walked out from her office and towards him. Her tone was brisk and stern, but she gave him a small smile and he remembered her words earlier in the term. _If you need a space to talk, come see me._ Well, he was talking her up on her offer. Wringing her hands, he asked if they could talk somewhere private; no one was in the wing except them, but still, it paid to be careful. She looked closely at him before nodding firmly and turning back

Her office was small and quaint with watercolor paintings of wild, open landscapes on her walls and a plush carpet on the floor. She pointed him to a wooden chair across from her desk—which she quickly transformed into a deep red armchair. He sank gratefully in it—his knees were wobbly underneath him. Madame Pomfrey tapped a floral-engraved teapot on her desk, which started whistling under her touch.

As the tea cooled in his cup, Harry began talking, slowly at first, halting and stuttering as he struggled to find the rights words. He’d never told anyone before, not really. Snape had heard from Aunt Petunia so he didn’t have to explain himself—not that being outed was all that fun—and Luna had already known when he tried, clumsily, to tell her. So this was new, and it took him a while. After stumbling through some stories— _Star Wars,_ how his hair wouldn’t grow long, how the clothes Aunt Petunia bought him shrunk anytime she tried to make him wear them—he said, “So I’m trans and a boy and I’m sorry and I never meant to lie and I hope it’s okay I told you and I’m sorry and I’m so—”

“I think you’ve done enough apologizing, Mr. Potter,” Madame Pomfrey said, holding her hand up to stop his stream of frantic words.

“Sor—okay.” Harry sat quietly as Madame Pomfrey peered at him across the table. He took a large gulp of tea but it was still steaming hot and scalded his throat.

“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey said kindly. “I appreciate your confidence and trust in me. But I’m confused as to how this information has slid past me.”

“I—I know I should have told you sooner. I just didn’t want to ruin it; I thought maybe I could get away with it.”  
“You were under no obligation to tell me until—and if—you felt ready. That is not what I am referring to, however. As the school matron, I have every student’s medical files. Mr. Potter, when your file arrived your first year, your gender was labelled with an ‘M.’ Nothing in your files indicate a former name, a former gender, a former identity of any kind. As you spoke, I wracked my head trying to remember what I knew of you as a baby; after all, you became famous as just a one-year old. As you say, the Wizarding World must have known you as a different name then. You would have been the girl who lived—but I can’t remember anything. Your childhood identity is completely vanished from my recollection.”

Harry was confused, and told her so. How could she just lose her memories? He’d learned about memory charms thanks to Lockhart the year prior, so maybe it was something like that… but he certainly hadn’t cast anything.

“Do you think anyone remembers?” Harry’s throat felt dry. “How could everyone just forget?”  
“I’m afraid I don’t know, child,” Pomfrey said. “Is there anyone else in the Wizarding World you’ve confided in?”

“Er, Professor Snape knows. He’s never mentioned anything about it either, so I think maybe he’s forgotten too. And Luna—a second year from Ravenclaw—she knows; she said you help her sometimes, because she’s… she’s like this too.”

“You can say ‘trans,’ Mr. Potter. It is not a word to be ashamed of. You and Ms. Lovegood are certainly not the first students to come through my office in this situation.” She smiled at Harry, and he faked a smile back at her. He knew the term, of course, but he also knew that he was _wrong_ fundamentally, that something about him and his body was all messed up—and it was his fault. Not at all like Luna or any of the other students that Madame Pomfrey had referenced.

Now that he thought about it, he realized that _nothing_ made sense about his identity. How had his letter known his name? How come everyone knew him as the boy who lived and didn’t question it? How come not even _Professor Dumbledore_ seemed to know anything was wrong? The more he thought, the more confusing it all became, a massive wave of dizziness and emptiness that swelled and crashed onto the beach of his mind. What was his birth name? Did he even know? He strained and struggled, trying desperately to recall it, but it had been pulled from his mind and he could not find it no matter how hard he searched.

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry flicked his focus to Madame Pomfrey, who was staring at him from across the desk looking quite concerned. He needed to respond to her, his brain was conscious of that much—but the words weren’t coming. He couldn’t breathe very well.

“Mr. Potter?”

She called him again, this time more sternly, and he tried to say something—anything—but couldn’t. He fluttered his hand in distress, trying to apologize—he was being terribly rude, after all, and didn’t want her to think he was disrespectful.

Madame Pomfrey raised her wand—he flinched—and _accioed_ something from the other room. A vial slipped through the door and into her hand. Removing the cork, she gently pressed the vial into his hand, wrapping his fingers around it so he could hold it.

“Drink this,” she said. “It will calm you. Drink, and try to take deep breaths. Do you hear me, Mr. Potter?”

Nodding jerkily, Harry downed the vial and tried to regulate his breathing. This was so embarrassing. Why couldn’t he handle even a simple conversation anymore? He’d fought Voldemort and been fine, so a conversation with Madame Pomfrey should have been a breeze. But here he was, choking down a calming draught and trying not to cry.

The matron watched him closely but didn’t say anything for a bit, letting him slow his heart and come back to the surface. He felt like he was far, far away from the conversation, not even in the same room. His head was filled with wool and he couldn’t think very clearly—but he was calm, at least, and could talk again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Madame Pomfrey waved her hand in dismissal and told him—again—that he had nothing to apologize for, that his reaction was perfectly understandable.

But it wasn’t, and he knew it. He was _weak._ He was worthless—not only against Voldemort but as a person entirely; he couldn’t handle anything and would unravel at the slightest discomfort. Something in him was broken, and no matter what Madame Pomfrey said he knew it was his fault.

She asked him gently if he wanted to stay and rest for a while, but he knew he should really get on to the Great Hall. As he left, she called his name once more.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for help, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Thank you for trusting me today.”

He nodded and gave her a small smile. It hadn’t been perfect—far from, in fact—but he had _told_ someone. And she hadn’t been angry, or yelled at him, or hurt him in any way. So that was something.

Instead of going to the Great Hall, Harry went to the library, where he could sit for a bit before class started. He even pulled out his homework but shoved it away after a few minutes—Flitwick would be upset, because Harry hadn’t turned in a properly completed assignment nearly all month, but he just couldn’t look at any of it without feeling sick. What did his assignments matter when everything else was so messed up? Sighing, he lay his head on the table and tried to think through his conversation with Pomfrey.

But no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t remember his birthname. It was gone, vanished from his brain. He couldn’t remember the teachers in primary school calling his name, he couldn’t remember the Dursleys yelling it at him—or rather, he could, but the name itself was fuzzy, blanketed by something he couldn’t remove.

Eventually, the truth sunk in: _no one_ could remember who he was, who he had been—not even Harry himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay--I'm endeavoring to post at a more consistent rate instead of whenever I finish writing :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogsmeade weekend before the Halloween feast: Harry has a run-in with the Whomping Willow.

The end of October brought with it the first Hogsmeade weekend. Ron was thrilled and couldn’t stop talking about it. Hermione was a bit more mellow but still jumped into his monologues with interjections of her own about the history and lore of the village.

“Shame you can’t go, mate,” Ron said. “Maybe you could ask McGonagall?”

“Nah. I don’t reckon she’d give me any special privileges—she’s a stickler for rules.”

“And rightly so!” Hermione said indignantly. “Harry, Sirius Black is after you. You’re not safe in Hogsmeade, even with the dementors.”

_The dementors._ Harry hadn’t dealt with them since the train, but they visited his dreams every so often and he would wake up in a cold sweat, his hands clammy.

“Yeah, I suppose it’s better off this way.” But he was sad to be alone and wished bitterly that they wouldn’t go without him, that they’d stay back with him instead. He knew it was unfair to think that, though, and didn’t say anything.

Harry walked with them to the courtyard, where Filch was checking permission forms and herding them out to the village. As he waved them off, Malfoy called over to him. “Hey, Potter! Too big a coward to pass the dementors? Scared you’ll faint?”

Harry stared at him coolly. He wasn’t sure why Malfoy thought his insults were all that good; they were more or less just factual statements, and this one was definitely weaker than his usual lot.

“You saw me faint, Malfoy,” he said levelly. “Of _course_ I wouldn’t want to go through that again.”

Well, Malfoy couldn’t really say much to that. He seemed a little deflated as Harry walked past, looked perhaps more pale than usual. _Good,_ Harry thought. Malfoy was still threatening to fire Hagrid—he deserved to be knocked down a few pegs.

After the third years all trooped to Hogsmeade, Harry tried to find Luna or Ginny to hang out with, but Ginny wasn’t in the common room and Luna wasn’t in the library; he wasn’t sure where else to check, especially as he didn’t know where the Ravenclaw tower was. Though plenty of younger students were still in the castle, he felt distinctly alone, and his footsteps echoed loudly as he walked.

After a while of trudging through random corridors, Harry found himself walking out onto the grounds. It was a gray day, with a fine mist spiraling down from the sky, wetting his cheeks. He put the hood of his sweatshirt up and cinched it tight so it wouldn’t fall back to his shoulders. He could see the Whomping Willow on the horizon, leaves pulling from its branches as it swam madly in the air. It was a crazy, wild thing, and looking at it he felt a weight on his chest; he was a crazy, wild thing, too, and all he wanted was to be free. To run, to scream, to cry. To be someone different. His world was upside down right now and nothing made sense—he could empathize deeply with a creature that wrecked everything that touched it. 

He thought of Ron and Hermione in Hogsmeade, and of Aberforth, the gruff man who’d taken him in that one dreadful night. He’d have liked to speak to him again, but he’d probably never set foot in Hogsmeade again. Not if Black was still around. Not if dark omens were following him everywhere. Not if he couldn’t do anything without having a panic attack or being attacked by Voldemort.

In the midst of his gloomy thoughts, Harry didn't notice the large patch of mud in the path. With a great squelching noise, Harry slipped and fell backward, giving a small cry of surprise. Groaning, he examined the damage. Mud splattered the back of his jeans and his shirt. Lifting his hand to his hair, he found it slick and slimy with it, a few wet leaves sticking to him, too. And then, lifting his eyes back to the grounds to check if anyone had seen him, he saw the dog.

The dog was slinking through the grass towards the Whomping Willow. Harry watched it nimbly duck the branches of the tree, which had started swinging more dangerously as the dog approached. They whipped through the air and slammed into the ground, but the dog darted through them and then—Harry hadn’t quite seen how, it had happened in the blink of an eye—vanished from sight. With a jolt of anger, Harry bolted towards the tree; this was his chance to finally catch the dog and set things right. No more omens following him and freaking him out. No more danger lurking at him from every corner—he would set things straight, once and for all. He dashed determinedly towards the willow, mud splashing as he ran; he was almost there when a voice called out behind him, loud and livid. 

“Potter!” Snape’s voice cut through his spine and he faltered, turning to look at the professor. As he did so, a branch came crashing down next to him, twigs crashing from the limb and littering the ground. Harry stumbled in shock and fell, screaming and twisting his ankle in the process. Stunned, he watched as the branch lifted into the air above him, twirling menacingly before falling fast straight towards him. He closed his eyes, cringing, but the blow never came.

“ _Arresto Momentum!_ ” Snape’s voice pierced the air. Opening his eyes, Harry saw the branch hovering right above him, a twig nearly brushing his nose. Gasping, he crab-crawled backwards until he was out of its reach.

“What sort of stupid do you have to be to go willingly into that tree’s path, boy? What were you thinking?” Snape looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him. His face was white, and he was breathing hard. His robes were disheveled, and his usual curtain of black hair was a mess, blown by the wind. Furiously, he bellowed down at Harry, “Answer me!”

“I—” Harry was still on the ground, and Snape was towering over him. A rush of panic overcame him and his brain froze, all words turning to mush in his mouth. He was in for it now. Snape was finally going to kill him. It had been a good run, Harry thought, but it was over now.

“Do you have mud in your ears? Answer me, you stupid boy!”

Harry flinched violently and lifted his arms in front of his face. “I’m sorry!” he wailed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”

Horrified, he realized his eyes had started to water and tears were tracking down his cheeks. Uncle Vernon always hated when he cried. His breath hitched and sped up. Frantically, he tried to remember what the book had said about panic, about how to neutralize your emotions, but there was a thick ocean of black water rolling through his head, and nothing could get through. He felt like he was suffocating under it, drowning in the swell. A hand grasped his wrist, and he jerked back from the sudden touch, curling into himself. His scar felt inflamed, a fierce rush of heat washing over his forehead. All he knew was panic and pain and fear. A rush of images flashed through his head, frantic terrifying things that weren’t memories at all, but something else—something darker. They whipped through his mind and he moaned, felt burning pain surge through his scar. Right before he blacked out, the hollow, venomous cackle that he’d heard with the dementors rang in his ears, echoing on and on and on.

↠

Luna had been at the edge of the Forbidden Forest when she heard Harry scream. She’d been visiting the hippogriffs, who loved it when she brought ferrets and read them poetry. The little ones would trot towards her eagerly when they saw her, eager for treats. On her way back from the lot Hagrid had built for them, she had been thinking excitedly about inviting Harry to see the mooncalves with her in a few days. He’d never seen them before, which was so surprising—her mum had always taken her out every full moon to watch them dance in the valley.

His scream ricocheted through the air and shook her from her thoughts. Luna looked towards the sound and saw the Whomping Willow thrashing madly. Next to it stood a tall, billowing figure—she recognized it as Snape immediately—and a crumpled figure on the ground. _Harry._ As she got closer, she saw Snape had tried to grab Harry, but Harry had pulled back. Luna wasn’t sure what was wrong but knew that her friend needed her help. Ever since she’d met him, he’d been scared of so many things. Whatever had scared him now, she knew he needed someone who understood him.

“Ms. Lovegood,” Snape barked as she drew nearer, “This is none of your concern!” He tried to wave her back, but she ignored him.

“Harry’s my friend, sir,” she said simply, dropping to her knees by Harry’s body. He was shaking fiercely, his breaths ragged. His eyes squeezed shut, his body curled protectively around himself. Gently, she reached for his hand. When he jerked back, she didn’t let go, instead bringing both hands to his and covering his. “Harry,” she murmured. “Harry, it’s alright. It’s going to be okay.”

Harry whimpered, but didn’t pull away again. Without looking at Snape, who seemed utterly lost as to what he was supposed to do, Luna sat down next to Harry in the mud and, keeping up a steady murmur of reassurances, slowly uncurled him from himself. She pulled his head into his lap and ran her fingers through his hair, slow and soft. “Breathe, Harry,” she said, gently pulling his hand away as he tried to cower again. “You’re safe.”

His breathing grew softer. Still fast, still ragged, but lighter, more consistent.

“Professor,” Luna said, now turning her gaze to the man. “I think Harry would appreciate a blanket. Would you like to sit with us?”

Snape looked stunned. Luna was quite sure he would prefer to be anywhere else, doing anything else, but he was here, and Harry needed him, too. She smiled up at him. Sighing hard, the professor conjured a blanket underneath them and then another that was large enough to wrap around both Luna and Harry. Then, he knelt and slid rather stiffly onto the quilt. He looked rather silly as he crossed his legs criss-cross applesauce, but she didn’t want to make him feel bad by pointing it out.

“I thank you, Ms. Lovegood, for coming to help him.” The professor was very embarrassed, wasn’t he? He wasn’t blushing—Luna couldn’t imagine him ever doing so—but he seemed rather awkward, unsure of himself. Luna didn’t know why he was so uncomfortable.

“He’s my friend,” she said again. “It’s not fun to be scared all on your own.”

“Does this, ah, _fear_ happen often?”

“I’m not sure, professor. He can be very anxious sometimes. He has a lot to worry about, I think. What happened?”

Professor Snape told her what he had seen. Harry, rushing towards the tree, getting too close. Snape, trying to get him out of harm’s way, the tree nearly hitting the boy. And then, the panic attack, the way Harry couldn’t answer and just shut down.

“Well,” Luna said, hesitating slightly. “I don’t think he likes being yelled at very much.”

“I’m sure he does not, Ms. Lovegood, but his behavior was reckless and dangerous. He needs to understand that he cannot simply throw himself into bodily injury whenever he feels the urge. I cannot always be there to save him from angry trees or… other dangers.”

“Oh, no, professor, I’m sure he doesn’t expect you to be there when he fights Voldemort.” She ignored the professor’s choking gasp as she said that. “But I know that Harry… his Uncle isn’t very nice to him. He doesn’t know how to react to other people. He knows that you won’t hurt him, probably, but his brain got confused because you were yelling. So maybe you should just not yell next time.”

“I—I suppose you may be right.” Professor Snape looked properly ashamed of himself, Luna thought, and frowned a little. She didn’t want him to feel bad; he just hadn’t understood what Harry needed.

Shaking his head, Professor Snape muttered, “Why was the damn boy running at the tree, anyway? Foolish.” Luna didn’t think he’d meant to say it out loud, but she responded anyway, still stroking Harry’s hair as he calmed. Harry didn’t seem very conscious at the moment, otherwise she wouldn’t be saying everything in front of him; she knew he wouldn’t like to hear that very much.

“He’s been looking for a dog lately. Maybe he found it.”

“A dog?”

“A big, black one. I’ve seen it around but haven’t been able to earn its trust yet. Harry’s been quite obsessed with it, I think.” Harry was mostly still now, but his energy was quiet, dim. She could tell he was struggling with something inside himself. Or maybe _someone._ He didn’t talk about his family much, but she knew enough to know how sad he was to stay with them.

Snape hissed something that Luna didn’t quite catch. He seemed disturbed. Luna wondered if he was scared of dogs. “That blasted mongrel. I’m going to kill h—” he started to growl but cut off as Harry started to turn in Luna’s lap.

“Harry?” she asked. “Are you feeling better?”

“Luna?” His eyes cracked open, looking bloodshot and scared.

“Yes, Harry. You’re quite safe. It’s just me and the professor.”

His eyes darted around frantically for a moment and his breathing halted, but then he relaxed back into her.

“What happened?”

Luna looked towards Snape, who cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I believe I owe you an apology, Mr. Potter.” Harry’s eyes widened in shock. “Upon seeing your venture into the range of the Willow’s attack, in my haste to save you from bodily harm I did not take into consideration your mental safety as well.”

Luna watched Harry think through what Professor Snape said. Finally, Harry said, “Oh, did I… did I have a panic attack?” He seemed uncertain about it for some reason. Luna nodded and squeezed his hand. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Do you feel you can stand, Potter?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry pushed himself off Luna and got to his knees. As he stood, he wobbled dangerously and clutched his head, issuing a gasp of pain.

This time, it was Snape to catch him as he fell, arms propping him up. “Clearly not,” Snape said dryly, crooking his eyebrow. Luna frowned, watching Harry flinch as Snape touched him—she wished he was better with touch from other people, especially the professor whom she quite liked.

“My scar,” Harry whispered, still holding his forehead. “It’s… it feels like it’s going to explode or something.”

Looking at the scar—in between her friend’s red-knuckled fingers—she saw it was quite inflamed. The jagged lines that spread over his forehead were a gleaming pink and looked raw, as if it had not been given to him thirteen years ago but far more recently.

“Does this normally happen when you experience anxiety?” Snape asked, still holding Harry up awkwardly.

“No…” Harry was breathing hard again, not from panic but from pain. “It… this doesn’t happen a lot. I think… I’m not sure that was… just an anxiety attack, sir. I saw… things.”

“Things?”

Harry seemed to struggle to respond to Snape’s query. It was quite some time before he said anything, and even then it was just a shallow gasp of pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t…” He slumped further into Snape’s grasp, and the professor shifted awkwardly to hold his weight.

In a dark tone, Professor Snape said quickly, “Try not to speak, Mr. Potter. If you can, try to clear your mind of any thoughts. Imagine a place you could feel safe. Focus on security and peace—that may alleviate some pain. Ms. Lovegood and I will assist you to the Hospital Wing, where we can help you best.”

“Is this… Voldemort? Is it bad?”         

Snape flinched horribly but covered the action by shifting his robes. “I cannot say. It may be. We’ll discuss it soon; for now, clear your mind. Ms. Lovegood, if you will?”

Luna stood and gently took one of Harry’s arms. He leaned on her gratefully and then murmured, “Sorry about the mud.” She laughed gently, and the professor scoffed, hoisting Harry up as they started to walk. Luna felt a thrill of fear for her friend as they walked up to the castle. Something was hurting him, something dark and scary, and she didn’t know how to help. If it was a herd of wrackspurts—simple. But Voldemort? He was something else entirely.


	11. Chapter 11

First, Harry felt _warm._ Not safe, exactly, but comfortable, relaxed.

Then, Harry felt distinctly _not alone._

He groaned. Opening his eyes just a crack, he saw the familiar beds of the hospital wing around him, saw the midday sun filtering through, dust swirling in its rays. Saw Madame Pomfrey, Snape, and Dumbledore all sitting next to his bed, seemingly unaware he was awake.

Slowly, Harry flexed his body and checked to make sure nothing was injured. He wasn’t sure why he was there—he felt fine and couldn’t remember a Quidditch injury or anything else. As he racked his brain to remember something, anything, an image came to him. Well, not so much an image as… a feeling. Him, curled tight against something else, something firm and warm and steady, like a heartbeat. He remembered the scratch of someone’s robe and the faint scent of… maybe cardamom? He wasn’t sure. Something pleasant yet peppery. Who had been carrying him—and why?

“Feel free to join us anytime, Mr. Potter,” came Snape’s snide voice, interrupting his stream of thought. Well, so much for no one noticing he was awake.

“Drink this.” Madame Pomfrey shoved a vial into his hand and he drank it without thinking. Only after he swallowed down the noxious concoction did he ask her what it was.

“Nutritive potion. You’re severely malnourished and vitamin-deficient, Mr. Potter, which doesn’t make any sense considering you are provided three perfectly adequate meals a day.”

“Oh. Is that why… is that why I’m here, or something?”

“You don’t remember?” This was Snape again, sharp and stern, his eyes flashing.

“Uh, no. Not really. I remember, well, someone holding me, I think. But that’s it.” Harry blushed. Snape’s glare intensified, but Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled and Madame Pomfrey seemed to be hiding a smirk. Oh—so it had been Snape. _Great._

“Harry,” said Dumbledore. “While we have some of the details, we aren’t absolutely clear as to what occurred, either. We will fill in some of the blanks, and hopefully you will be able to recount the rest.”

Dumbledore then summarized what had happened, asking Snape to fill in some of the more concrete details, which he did but looked quite unhappy to do so. While listening, Harry thought about the last time he’d talked to Dumbledore, after the basilisk and Tom and Ginny and everything that had happened. And now, Voldemort was apparently in the mix again. It was to be expected, he supposed, but it was frustrating that Dumbledore only seemed to be interested in him whenever Voldemort was threatening him or the school—he felt like a tool the man was using instead of a thirteen-year-old student.

“Hang on, is Luna okay?”

“Yes, Potter, Ms. Lovegood is fine,” Snape said irritably. “I dismissed her after you lost consciousness for the _second_ time. Your health is utterly abysmal and while the Dark Lord will surely attack you regardless, it would behoove you to listen to Madame Pomfrey and her medical expertise in the future, rather than gallivant through the castle with no regard for your safety.”

“Now, now, Severus,” Dumbledore murmured, “we have given young Harry here quite a lot of information to deal with. It is only natural he would be concerned for his dear friend.”

Snape glared.

“Harry, has anything sparked your memory? You mentioned to Professor Snape that you had seen something while your scar hurt; is there any chance you can remember what that was?”

“No, Professor Dumbledore, I’m really sorry. I… I can remember my scar hurting now, a little bit. It’s fuzzy though, like the memory’s been messed with. When I try to think about what I saw, it’s all dark and shadowed, and I can’t hear anything except a buzz.”

“Ah. Quite unfortunate,” Dumbledore said. Harry nodded glumly. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but the way the headmaster looked at him made him feel guilty nonetheless, as if he’d somehow failed his expectations. “There may be a solution, if you would concede to the process, Harry. You see, Professor Snape here is quite a gifted Occlumens. Have you heard of this, Harry? No, no, I did not imagine you would have. Occlumency is the ability to connect and dissect another’s mind.”

“Like mindreading? Like Professor X?”

“No, Potter, not like the Muggle’s nonsensical concept of telepathy,” Snape said. “Occlumency is a trained and dedicated skill which takes _years_ to master and is nothing as simple as putting on a silly amplification helmet.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Harry retorted angrily. Come to think of it, though, how did _Snape_ know about the _X-Men_? Harry’d always assumed he was a pureblood because of his Slytherin nature and the disdainful way he treated Hermione, but maybe he wasn’t.

“Boys,” Madame Pomfrey admonished, looking at them both sternly. “Behave yourselves.”

Both Snape and Harry glowered.

“Occlumency,” Dumbledore carried on, as if he’d never been interrupted, “works best when the two connecting entities regard each other with trust and understanding. While you and your professor may not see eye-to-eye at all times, Harry, it is important that you do at this moment. In fact, you will need to see directly eye-to-eye for the process to work.”

The headmaster chuckled at his own joke. Harry didn't think it was all that clever.

“But why do you have to see inside my brain or whatever?” Harry asked. “Why is it so important?”

“Because, you ignorant bo—”

“Thank you, Severus, that will be all. It is important, Harry, because if Voldemort is somehow able to access your mind, that indicates he is now stronger than the last few years. He is still bodiless, you see, but he may have found another well of strength in which he may exercise some amount of power—similar to Quirrell and the unicorns.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling slightly sick. “So he might… he might come back then. And you need to see if there are any clues in my memories. D’you think he was talking to me specifically? Or did I just overhear?”

“That, my boy, I am not quite sure about. It may help, however, if you permit Severus to seek out those answers. Is this something you will do for us?”

Harry gulped. He didn’t much fancy anyone in his head, let alone Snape who already had quite enough information to hold over Harry’s head already. But the way Dumbledore said it… if he didn’t help, Voldemort could come back. If he didn’t do this, it might be all his fault.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, I guess. But—can you only look at those memories and not everything else? How do you choose what you see?”

“Again, Potter, Occlumency is a _trained and dedica—_ ”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry wasn’t too eager to hear another one of Snape’s speeches—Madame Pomfrey seemed to agree, giving a nondescript snort of laughter as Harry interrupted his professor. “Just don’t go poking anywhere I don’t want.”

“Have some respect, Potter. As for your concern, if you believe I am wandering into an area you do not wish me to see, simply make me aware.”

“How, though?”

“What?”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Snape seemed about to say something else sharp and derogatory, but Dumbledore interrupted him.

“You will not be absent from your mind once Professor Snape enters. It will be like a conversation of sorts. Though it may feel uncomfortable, because Professor Snape is not _attacking_ your memories but instead conversing with them, you will have a measure of control over what he sees. In fact, it will be helpful for you to focus on those memories you cannot access while Professor Snape begins his exploration, as that will help him access them with ease.”

Harry flinched when Dumbledore mentioned attacking memories. That sounded horrible; he never wanted anyone in his mind, mucking things about. That could happen? Horrifying.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s get it over with.”

Professor Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey stepped back and made their way back to her office. Harry thought they were trying to make him feel more comfortable but all he felt was more vulnerable. Snape could do whatever he wanted now.

“Potter,” Snape said. “While years of experience have revealed to me that this is not your area of expertise, kindly endeavor to pay attention throughout this process.”

Harry glared. Why was Snape being so irritable to him? Was it because he’d had to carry him to the castle? Harry was plenty embarrassed about that and wished desperately that he could block _that_ from his memory (well, it sort of already was), but it wasn’t fair of Snape to treat him terribly just because he’d been unconscious!

“Look into my eyes, Potter,” Snape hissed. Harry reluctantly drew his eyes towards Snape’s. They were blacker than usual, if that was possible, and looked like empty, yawning chasms.

“ _Legilimens,_ ” Snape whispered, and Harry felt himself drawn into the chasms, falling through darkness.

It was _weird_ to have another person inside his mind. It felt like roots of a tree, crawling over his own and gripping them tightly, choking them. Some stretched further than others, reaching out into his mind. Harry could see flashes of various memories and tried to push them all back, away from Snape. There was no way he was going to see _anything_ he didn’t need to, especially not anything from the Dursleys.

Snape must’ve found what he was looking for, because all the tendrils surged together towards a single point, further and further into the dark dirt of Harry’s mind, down into the recesses of his memory.

For a moment, everything was black. And then: a blast of pain, ricocheting through Harry’s mind. He knew he was still in the hospital wing, completely fine, but he also felt the sharp burning of his scar, the piercing knife of pain that stabbed through him. His breathed ticked and he wanted nothing more than to end this, to shove Snape out of his brain and refuse to do this ever again.

 _“It is just the memory, Potter.”_ Snape’s voice came not from the physical world but from inside Harry’s mind, a soft and hissing thing that almost sounded like wind instead of a human voice. _“It will pass. Breathe.”_

Breathing deeply, Harry felt the pain receding to a dull flame rather than a forest fire. The black of the memory turned, then, into rapid-fire flashes of other images, moments Harry was positive he’d never experienced—and hoped desperately that he never would.

First, the inside of a rickety house, peeling wallpaper and deep scratches on the sofa that pulled out the stuffing. Someone was screaming, and someone else was laughing.

Then, the full moon. A werewolf, huge and hairy and terrifying, casting its shadow over the ground, baring its massive teeth.

A snake, coiling around and around a limp body, its green scales flashing as it moved.

Fire, ripping through the sky. A forest demolished.

More and more, random splices of images—a creeping rat, a snake’s nest, a black dog. A spindly hand reaching out. A tea pot shattering. And over everything, the same laugh he’d heard before, high and screeching.

Harry didn’t know why, but his hands were shaking. He was terrified, though not everything in the images had been scary. Most of it had been commonplace, but for some reason his body was shutting down again. His scar burned dully, though he thought that was just from seeing the images again, not another attack from Voldemort.

 _“Breathe,”_ came Snape’s internal voice again. _“Control yourself, Potter. Imagine Magneto’s helmet, repelling any telepathic attack. Focus on something solid, something concrete that will prevent others from seeing into your brain. Force me out.”_

Harry didn’t know what to think of, but Snape kept prodding him. He remembered the image of the fire, the forest burning, and began to imagine a ring of fire around him, kind of like the fire in Snape’s challenge protecting the stone his first year. Nothing could get out, nothing could get in. He watched the fire crackle and hiss, sparks flying into the air, and imagined the heat on his face, the red cast to everything around him. It was night, and the stars were shining, and a cool breeze wafted through the air, mixing with the warmth of the fire. He looked up and sighed contentedly.

And then Snape was shaking him, and he realized that he was back in the hospital wing. Of course, he’d never left.

“Welcome back,” Snape said dryly.

“Ah, excellent, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “Poppy and I just finished our biscuits. Anything illuminating?”

“Quite,” Snape said. He conjured an empty vial and then pointed his wand to his temple. As he pulled his wand away, a strand of silvery fluid came away with it; he dropped his wand to the brim of the vial, and the fluid followed the path into it. He corked it and handed it to Dumbledore.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Dumbledore said.

“Well? What’s happening? What does it mean?” The adults were ignoring Harry and he was infuriated. They were _his_ memories, right? He deserved to know what Voldemort was up to.

“The memories are nonsensical, Potter,” Snape said. “They indicate very little, except that Voldemort is quite happy about something. That was undoubtedly his laugh.”

Harry paled. “That was him? That… that’s his laugh?”

“As I just said, yes.”

“I—I’ve heard it before.”

“Before? When would you have heard it before, Potter?”

“In my dreams—my nightmares. And, and when I saw the dementors. On the train. I heard someone screaming, a woman, and then him laughing…” Harry realized it then and felt his heart thump terribly. “Oh. That was my mum, wasn’t it? And him… him killing her.”

The last words came out as a whisper. Snape hissed angrily but Harry barely noticed. Every nightmare, every single one, he’d been hearing his mother die and Voldemort laughing. _Laughing._ He felt like vomiting.

“Do you need a calming potion, Harry?” This was Pomfrey, who had moved closer to his bed concernedly.

“No. No. I’m fine, Madame Pomfrey.”

“You are anything _but_ fine, Potter!” Snape was yelling at him—why was Snape always yelling? “You have had a fairly traumatic day and an absurdly traumatic past that you have been, apparently, reliving over and over in your dreams. Do not wave this away, boy. The Dark Lord himself has just been inside your mind and you have witnessed what is likely a sequence of future events involving both him and yourself and quite a lot of pain and yet you insist you are _fine?_ Should I have left you to deal with the Whomping Willow yourself then? Should I have left you on the grounds, free to wake up whenever you saw fit after a mental attack from the darkest wizard this century? You are not _fine_ and you have not been for a long time! Do not insult Madame Pomfrey nor me by insinuating anything else!” Snape was breathing heavy and looked positively wild. By the end of his speech, Harry had shrank back as far as he could into the pillows on his bed, raising his knees protectively to his chest.

“I—I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Do not _apologize,_ Potter! This is your well-being, this is your sanity, this is your future! Stop treating it as insignificant! If you do not value your life you may as well leave Hogwarts and return to those loathsome Muggles you live with!”

Before Harry could respond, Snape stormed out of the hospital wing, slamming the door shut behind him.

For a moment, everyone was still, looking towards where Snape had just vanished.

“Well,” Dumbledore said, eyes still twinkling. “That was rather illuminating, don’t you think?”

Harry didn’t think so. He thought Snape sent way too many mixed signals and made practically no sense at all and yelled far too much and at the moment he wished desperately he never had to see him again. But he wasn’t about to tell the headmaster that, so he merely nodded in agreement.

↠

By the time Harry escaped Madame Pomfrey’s overly-concerned watch, Ron and Hermione were already back from Hogsmeade. He found them in the common room, splitting sweets and chatting happily. He smiled, looking at them. They’d grown apart the last two months, but he knew that was mostly his fault—they were still his friends, still the bright and happy people he knew and loved. And they were going to stay that way—there was no way he was telling them anything about Voldemort or Snape or the Grim or any of his other multitude of issues. He would figure them out himself; they couldn’t get hurt on his behalf.

“Oy! Harry, get over here!” Ron waved him over from the entrance and chucked a chocolate frog at him, hitting him solidly in the nose. “Where’ve you been?”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione said. “Talk with your mouth closed or don’t talk at all!”

Harry laughed, and opened the chocolate frog, setting it aside to look at the card. Herpo the Foul—first known creator of the basilisk. He grimaced. He’d had enough trouble with Salazar’s basilisk and was quite happy to forget that people could actually make more of them.

Asking about their trip to Hogsmeade was an easy enough way to get them off his back about where he’d been—they didn’t need to know he’d fainted. Madame Pomfrey had wanted him to stay overnight and cautioned him to be careful for the rest of the day, but he was fine—even if he felt a bit weaker than normal, even if he got dizzy when he stood up too fast, even if his hands trembled until he shoved them in his pockets. He was _fine._ No matter what Pomfrey or Snape had to say about it.

After a while of hanging out and exchanging candies, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set out for the Halloween feast. The hallways were adorned with black and orange candles and massive pumpkins, courtesy of Hagrid. Harry stumbled a few times along the way and fell into a trick stair on one of the staircases.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Harry?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed.

“I’m fine, Hermione,” he said, as cheerily as possible. “Just a bit tired, I think. I might be coming down with the flu or something.”

She looked suspicious but let it drop as Harry quickly changed the subject.

He didn’t make it through the first course before he felt his body weaken though. He hadn’t eaten much—everything around him was too noisy and bright and he felt overwhelmed by the Great Hall—but even so, he felt nauseous.

Quietly, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to head off to the tower.

“Want us to come with, mate?” Ron asked, his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“No, stay here and enjoy. I’m just gonna lie down early.”

Ron accepted that cheerily enough. Hermione frowned.

“Are you sure that’s all, Harry? You’ve seemed upset for quite a while now.” He could tell she meant the whole semester, not just the last few hours, but ignored it.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll go to Pomfrey and ask for a Pepper-Up potion,” he said. “That’ll fix me right up.”

Before Hermione could clarify what she meant, he swung his legs over the bench and made his way out the Great Hall. As he walked, he felt the hair on his neck start to rise as if someone was watching him. Turning, he met Snape’s dark glare, boring down at him from the staff table. He felt the first tendril of thought stretching towards him, and brought up his circle of fire instantly, shoving Snape out. That’s what he got for teaching him how to do it.

The castle was empty with everyone in the Great Hall. He didn’t pass a single person—or ghost—the whole way up to the tower. It was relaxing. Hogwarts was great, sure, but sometimes there was just so much happening, and he needed a break. It was good to be alone.

As he entered the corridor and made his way towards the Fat Lady, though, he did see someone. A figure was standing in front of her, obviously trying to get in. He was tall and lean, wearing a patchy overcoat. His hair was long and rugged, his curls lank and limp. Cautiously, Harry stepped backwards and hid behind a suit of armor.

The man was talking to the Fat Lady, but whatever he was saying didn’t seem to please her. She was shaking her head vehemently and talking over him.

“No password, no entrance! I’ve half a mind to scream my head off for Dumbledore if you don’t leave this instant.”

“Don’t you remember me? C’mon, you _know_ me!”

“I’ve heard enough, young man! Don’t think I don’t recognize you.”

“Why aren’t you more scared then? Remember all the fun we got up to? I helped you and Violet find all that alcohol that one Christmas.” The man’s tone was whimsical and wheedling, but Harry felt the dark undertone of urgency underneath. He wasn’t sure what he should do. Should he go get someone? A prefect? Nah, Percy wouldn’t know what to do either.

“That was a long time ago! And now you’ve been, you’ve been accused of such t-t-terrible things! How did you even get in the castle?”

“We always had our ways, didn’t we? Me and Remus and James?”

James? As in _James_ _Potter?_ Harry gasped, and tripped backwards into another suit of armor. It rattled and clanked as it fell to the ground, resonating through the whole corridor.

The man whipped his head around to look at Harry, his hair swinging in the air.

His face was gaunt and hollow as if he hadn’t eaten in years. His skin was yellow and waxen. He looked, well, he looked exactly like someone who’d been in Askaban for twelve years would look like.

Sirius Black stood in front of the Fat Lady, a knife hanging loosely in one hand. The mass murderer whose face Harry’d seen plastered across every storefront, every train station, even on the telly, was standing right in front of him. This was the man who wanted to kill him—he’d finally found a way to do it.

Black stepped towards him and then faltered. He stared at Harry and cocked his head. His eyes, instead of furious and frantic like on the posters, looked desperately sad then, clouded by sorrow. He took another step towards Harry, who was frozen in place, and opened his mouth to speak.

“Leonie?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Sirius Black.

“Leonie? Leonie, is that you?”

“W-who?”

“Blimey, you look just like your parents. I—God. I’ll explain everything, if you just—”

Harry didn’t let himself listen to Black for one minute longer.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Black didn’t even try to fight back. It was a child’s spell, but it worked: his wand clattered to the floor by Harry’s feet.

“Drop the knife. Drop it!” His hands were trembling, but Harry was in control. For once, he wasn’t gonna muck things up. Black looked at the knife in his hand as if he hardly knew he’d been holding it.

“Drop it,” he yelled again when Black just stared at it. Eventually, he did, sliding it towards Harry. “And don’t come any closer.”

“Leonie, I—I know they’ve told you all sorts of things, but I’m not, I’m not what they say I am. Please, you have to—”

“Shut up,” Harry hissed, trying his best to emulate Snape’s venomous tone, but his voice was unsteady and caught in his throat. “Shut up and stay still and don’t move.” Then, turning to the Fat Lady, who was still standing behind them in shock, he said, “Run down to the Great Hall. Find Dumbledore. Tell him I’ve got Sirius Black. Hurry!”

Though she looked greatly aggrieved to be told what to do by a thirteen-year old, the Fat Lady seemed to understand the severity of the situation and disappeared from her portrait; he saw her flit through a few other paintings as she moved rapidly towards the stairs. Hopefully she got down to the Hall soon—Harry had no idea what to do with the mass murderer in front of him and he still felt unsteady on his feet. If Black tried anything, there was a good chance Harry wouldn’t be able to hold his own.

“Leonie—”

“That’s not my name,” Harry snapped, though the more Black said it, the more familiar it sounded. Had he known someone named that? Regardless, Black was clearly taken aback, his eyes wide. In that moment he looked nothing like a mass murderer—more like a dumb dog.

“You’re… you’re James and Lily’s kid, right? You’d have to be, you look so much like them.”

“Don’t say my parents’ names. You have no right, _Death Eater!_ ”

“Le—I’m not. I swear, I swear on their memory, I’m not one of them.” His voice was hoarse, desperate. Harry thought he saw tears begin to bead at the corners of his eyes. “Please, just, please.”

“Stop. Talking. Now.” Harry gritted his teeth and strengthened his stance, pointing his wand firmly between the man’s eyes. He didn’t know any curses, not really, but he reckoned a Petrificus Totalus would do the job until Dumbledore got there. If he ever got there. He couldn’t hear any commotion from outside the corridor, so the Fat Lady must not have delivered her message yet.

“Please, Leo—”

“Shut up!”

“If you won’t listen to me…” Black shook his head regretfully. “I won’t be caught, not again. Let me go or I’ll have to hurt you. Neither of us wants that.”

“I’ve got you cornered. You’re not getting anyway this time.”

A great clatter of noise erupted from somewhere in the castle. Trust the Fat Lady to tell the whole Hall, not just Dumbledore. Well, whatever got him here the fastest.

In the split second of distraction, Black lunged. Tripping backwards, Harry tried to cast Petrificus, but before he could, Black transformed. In the blink of an eye, he went from a shabby, desperate-looking man into a far shabbier dog. A huge, black, hairy dog. A dog that attacked Harry, bowling him over and pressing him down with its four massive paws. It growled at Harry, saliva dripping down from its jowls.

A sound again, this time closer. Just beyond the corridor. The dog’s ears snapped up to listen, head cocked. Instead of panicking, though, it seemed to find its resolve. Harry, firmly immobile under its weight, could do nothing but breathe heavily as it first nuzzled into his neck and then gave him a huge, slobbery lick across the side of his face. The dog looked at him with serious eyes and Harry could definitively tell that it _was_ a human. Not an omen of death, not a local stray; it was a man—a man that had been following him for months. 

The dog gently stepped off him and padded to where Black’s wand was still lying on the floor. Carefully, it scooped the wand up with its lower canines and then, with one last intent look at Harry, darted around the corner of the hall and disappeared.

↠

By the time Snape arrived at the Gryffindor tower, Black was gone.

The majority of the staff wasn’t far behind him, thanks to the Fat Lady’s irritating lack of discretion—she’d screamed his presence to the entire hall, causing a huge panic in the crowd of students and making it even more difficult for anyone to exit quickly. He’d darted out a side door with McGonagall and Dumbledore on his heels. This was his chance to finally catch that mangy mutt and lock him up. He’d never forgiven him for, well, for a lot of things. But to kill his own best friends? To turn so willingly into what he’d condemned Snape for? He’d been right back then, of course—Snape had fucked up massively—so it made no sense that Black would so quickly turn from the Light and serve the Dark Lord alongside his brother, Regulus. What an absolute idiot.

Snape didn’t get his chance to confront him though. When he arrived, all that was left was a trembling boy half-slumped against a wall, his green eyes huge with fear and adrenaline.

“Which way did he go?” Snape demanded. The Potter boy was apparently in too much shock to speak and just pointed towards the end of the corridor. He bolted forwards but slammed to a halt when Dumbledore called him back.

“Severus, please,” the headmaster said. “Allow the other staff to pursue him. I’ve sealed the doors and we will conduct a full-scale investigation. For now, you are needed here.”

Snape seethed. Trust the doddering fool to interfere—he was well aware of Snape’s grudge.

McGonagall was bent over Potter and talking to him with a serious look on her face. Madame Pomfrey was bustling over with a calming draught. Flitwick, Sprout, and Vector were splitting up to cover various floors. Lupin, though… Lupin was nowhere to be found.

“I warned you,” Snape hissed, storming up to Dumbledore. “I told you that… that _mongrel_ would be dangerous. I _knew_ he was working with Black, I _knew_ it!”

“Severus, I have heard your concerns. I have heard your complaints. I understand—”

“You understand nothing! Your blind Gryffindor trust will get you nowhere, Dumbledore. They have been cohorts for decades; you must see that he is responsible! Where is he? Where is your furry friend? Ducked out for a moment, perhaps? He is not _ill_ at the moment so that is no excuse! Has he slid into one of their secret passageways? Is he aiding his escape even now? A child could have died! _Potter_ could have died! I know at least you care about him!”

“Might I remind you we are in a public space?” the headmaster asked.

Looking around, Snape saw that many Gryffindor students had started to arrive on the scene—not that there was much to see at this point. The boy was standing now, in between McGonagall and Pomfrey, and seemed more or less fine. Breathing hard, he stepped back from Dumbledore and glared, his eyes menacing.

In a half-whisper so that no onlookers would overhear, Snape said, “If you will not listen, I will seek him out myself. At the very least, he must answer for tonight’s actions and account for his absence. You have forgiven him far too many times, _Albus._ I won’t permit you to do so again.”

Even in his rage as he stormed from the corridor, Snape felt the curious eyes of at least _one_ young Gryffindor on him. Potter had been close enough to hear everything—he could surely fit some of the pieces together. Good. Snape regretted asking Lupin to talk to him earlier in the year as clearly, the werewolf was just as corrupted as Black; it would be better for the boy to stay clear away at all times. Though now he thought of it, he didn’t think Lupin had actually ever talked to the boy since then—likely because even if he was abetting the cur, he still felt a tendril of guilt over his friends’ murder.

As he passed the boy, he noticed something else. He seemed to be hiding something, pressing it between his arm and his robes. It glinted in the light as Snape left. But what would the Potter boy have to hide?

↠

Harry had just managed to slip Black’s knife into his palm before the professors turned the corner. He knew he should’ve turned it in right away, but something about the man made him curious. Plus, he didn’t seem like he had too many weapons at his disposal—why would he have left the knife behind? He’d stopped to pick up his wand, after all. Harry figured he wanted _him_ to have it.

McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey were crowding him. He was fine, really. He just wanted to escape up to the dormitories and examine the knife. The knife of _Sirius Black,_ who apparently had known his father. James. And Remus, whoever that was.

Snape was angry and yelling but for once, it wasn’t at Harry—he was yelling at _Dumbledore._ Harry was stunned; he’d never seen anyone disrespect the headmaster so thoroughly—he’d never seen anyone disrespect the headmaster _ever_.

Apparently, he thought someone had helped Black into the castle—and was helping him get out. But who? And why wasn’t Dumbledore listening to him? It seemed important, but Dumbledore had just waved Snape’s concerns away. When Snape stormed out of the corridor, the headmaster turned to Harry, his eyes twinkling cheerily as always.

“Harry, my boy,” he said. “You seem to be holding up despite the stressful commotion.”

“Yes, Professor Dumbledore. I’m alright.”

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. Harry, if you are up to it, I would like to know what precisely occurred when you met Black.”

“Oh, you mean like Legilimency again or whatever?”

“No, Harry,” Dumbledore said, chuckling. “I simply would like to hear, in your own words, what happened.”

Harry blushed. Quickly, he told the headmaster a slightly edited version of the story, omitting the name Black had kept repeating.

“…And then, er, he tackled me and stole his wand back and disappeared before I could do anything. I’m sorry, sir, I should have stopped him.”

Okay, so a little bit more than just the name was omitted.

“Stop him?” McGonagall cried. “Potter, you are a _child!_ You should not have been in the position to even see Black let alone try and combat him! _Stop him?_ You should have run from the scene as quickly as possible. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”

Pomfrey was nodding determinedly next to her, though Dumbledore didn’t seem as impressed. If anything, he seemed slightly annoyed by McGonagall’s speech. Almost like he disagreed entirely.

“He didn’t… I dunno, he didn’t seem like he wanted to kill me. I mean, he was dangerous, yeah, but he wanted to talk more than anything—hang on. He mentioned my dad, I think. Did he know him?”

McGonagall paled and turned to Dumbledore, looking helpless. No one answered quickly, so Harry plowed on.

“And he mentioned another guy, Remus. And he talked to the Fat Lady like he’d known her too—was he in Gryffindor, then? With my dad? And Snape sounded like he knew him. Did they go to school together, too? And why does Snape hate him so much? And why did Black try to talk to me instead of killing me? Doesn’t he want to avenge Voldemort or whatever? And—”

“Harry, I can see you have a great many questions,” Dumbledore said. “But now is not the time. Rest assured, I _will_ tell you. But the remainder of the school is in quite a mess right now, and we need to resume order within the houses. Set those questions aside for another time, my boy, and we will return to them.”

“I just—”

“Harry,” Dumbledore chided. “While you are so often in the thick of things, you must strive to remember that you are not what is most important at this moment.”

Harry flinched. Dumbledore thought he was concerned about getting the right amount of _attention_ from this? The headmaster fixed with a stern gaze and then turned from him, addressing the students and ordering them back to their various houses.

“Gryffindors, we will have additional security posted around the tower to ensure Black does not attempt entry once more. We must applaud the Fat Lady for resisting his demands; while she is calming her nerves currently, she will resume her post in a short while. Now, off to bed!”

The crowd began to disperse. Harry heard Malfoy mutter, “Oh, only Gryffindors need protection. The rest of us can just die, then. Sure,” as he slouched past.

“Harry!”

Ron and Hermione ran up to him. Hermione flung her arms around him while Ron settled for awkwardly patting his shoulder.

“We were so concerned! Oh, I’m so glad you’re alright!”

“When the Fat Lady came to the Great Hall she was screaming her head off,” Ron said, his freckles dark against his pale, scared face. “She just kept saying ‘Sirius Black is at the tower and he’s going to kill Harry Potter’ over and over again. I thought… I thought we’d be too late.”

“Didn’t know you cared so much. Thanks, Ron.” Harry tried to crack a grin, but Ron didn’t laugh.

“It’s not funny, mate.”

“No, I know it’s not,” Harry said. “Listen to this.”

He tried pulling Ron and Hermione into a corner of the common room to talk privately, but all the other students kept crowding him to hear what happened, so he had to wait until they were locked in the third-year dorms upstairs before he could talk. He told them what had happened, again stumbling awkwardly over the name Black had kept saying. _Leonie, Leonie, Leonie._ It sounded so familiar, but he just couldn’t place it. After a little hesitation, though, he did tell them about the dog.

“So you see, it hasn’t been the Grim following me all these months. It’s been Black in disguise, transformed or whatever!”

“You say that as if it’s better, Harry. I dunno… A mass murderer stalking you seems on par with an omen of death,” Ron said.

“But he can’t be an animagus,” Hermione said. “You have to be registered with the Ministry and it takes all sorts of work.”

“Hermione,” Ron said scathingly, “he’s a _mass murderer._ I don’t think he cares very much if he’s filled out proper Ministry registration, do you?”

“Well… no, I suppose not.”

“What’s an animagus?” Harry asked.

“Someone who can transform into an animal. Honestly, Harry, we learned about this in transfiguration at the beginning of the year!”

Harry hadn’t been paying much attention, which Hermione knew perfectly well.

“What else happened? How come he didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m not sure he was going to. He had a knife and everything. He dropped it when I made him, though, and didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me, I guess. He could have, after he transformed, but he didn’t.”

“He had a knife?”

“Yeah. I, er, took it. I mean. He just left without it and I wanted to know why he brought a knife but didn’t even use it and what it meant and…” Harry trailed off, realizing he didn’t really have a good explanation. The knife had just seemed important. He pulled the knife from his robe sleeve—it had been agonizing trying to hide it from the professors and he’d had to shuffle it through various parts of his clothing—and laid it on the bed they were all sitting on. Even in the dim, cozy light of the dorms, the sharp silver glinted menacingly.

“Woah,” Ron said. “That’s heavy-duty stuff.” He picked it up and examined it. Harry thought his statement was pretty accurate; the knife was heavy, bulky, and rough-looking but somehow also sleek, shining, and perfectly balanced in its weight. Ron admired it, shifting it from hand to hand and making impressed noises. It seemed to fit perfectly in anyone’s hand, no matter who the holder was.

Hermione examined it too, more hesitantly than either Ron or Harry.

“I think it’s goblin-made—it carries a magical weight to it. It might also be cursed,” she said. “Sirius Black could have left it intentionally for you to grab, and it has a latent hex or enchantment on it. We really ought to turn it in to Professor McGonagall, just in case.”

“Come off it,” Ron said. “Black’s deranged! There’s no way he’s clever enough for something like that.”

“He’s a death eater, Ron! I’m pretty sure he knows more than any of us do!”

“I don’t think he is,” Harry said. They stared at him. “A death eater, I mean. Or at least, he didn’t think he was. He denied it. Promised it, even.”

“Prolly shouldn’t trust the word of someone who wants you dead,” Ron pointed out. “Especially not if he’s a nutter.”

That was true, Harry thought. But they were missing something, he was sure of it.

“Hermione—is there a way to access old school records? Like a yearbook or something?”

“I’m not sure about a yearbook, Harry, but I bet I can find something. What are you looking for?”

“Sirius Black. And my dad. I think they might’ve gone to school together—might’ve even been mates, according to Black. McGonagall wouldn’t say anything though, not after Dumbledore shut everyone up.”

“Have you checked Hagrid’s photobook?” Ron asked.

“Brilliant!”

The bedsprings creaked as Harry leapt from the bed and dove into his trunk. Casting about half of its contents onto the floor, he finally found the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year. Moving back to the bed, he frantically scoured each picture looking for a glimpse of Black in the background.

“Aha!” One of the wedding photos showed Harry’s parents sandwiched by their bridesmaids and best men. To the left of his father, Harry saw three men: one mousy-haired, freckled, and short; one tall, scrawny, and thin with faint scars across his face; and one with long, elegant black curls that shaped his handsome face, his high cheekbones and roman nose. Sucking in a breath, Harry’s excitement at finding what he was looking for morphed into despair. Sirius Black had been his father’s best man—his best friend.

“That _bastard,_ ” Harry hissed. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Harry, you can’t! I know this is a shock, I—I’m shocked too, I can’t believe—but you have to be careful.” Hermione clasped his hands in her own. “He… he wants to kill you, and… and he was _just_ here! He almost killed you tonight! Oh, Harry.” She had tears in her eyes, and he realized there were tears in his, too. Even Ron looked rather watery.

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Harry turned back to the picture.

“He mentioned… Black said another name too. _Remus._ Probably one of the other guys in the photo, d’you think?”

They crowded over it, heads pressed tightly together.

“Hang on,” Ron said. “Those scars… when we met Lupin on the train, what did his briefcase say? Professor R. J. Lupin, right? Could he be Remus?”

 “Those scars look exactly identical, and he’d be the right age. I think he was a Gryffindor, too,” Hermione said. “Well-spotted, Ron.”

Ron muttered something rude about Hermione never looking past her own library of a brain to see other people’s worth—but he was blushing, so Harry figured it was alright.

“What does this mean—Lupin’s evil too?” And then Harry got it. “Fuck! He is! That’s what Snape was talking about; he knows Lupin was friends with him, and he knows Lupin let Black into the castle. He’s obviously helping Black get in because he’s working with Voldemort too!”

“He’s been really great, though,” Ron said. “Do you really think… I mean, Lupin? Seriously?”

“Yeah, _seriously_! He’s ignored me all semester since the dementors, hasn’t even looked at me in class once, like he’s trying super hard to _not_ be interested in me, right? Overcompensating or something. And he must’ve been on the train to scout me out—that’s it. So he could tell Black what I looked like and make sure he killed the right student.”

“That can’t be, Harry,” Hermione said. “Even if you’re right about Professor Lupin, wouldn’t Black already have known who you were from over the summer? You said you saw him in Little Whinging.”

Harry ignored her.

“And Dumbledore just ignored Snape when he tried to tell him! Lupin must have something on him, or maybe he’s in on it, too—he looked awfully suspicious when McGonagall tried to defend me, _and_ he stopped her from telling me anything! He doesn’t want me to figure things out but I _have._ ”

“Harry, you sound… paranoid, or something. I think you’re overreact—”

“I’m not overreacting, Hermione; I’ve just finally figured it all out.”

“B-but Harry, you’re agreeing with _Snape_! And you’ve never trusted him before, you always think he’s up to something. How can you trust him now?”

She had him there. But Snape had been vaguely reasonable at times this term—not _nice,_ exactly, but at the very least _sensible_.

“Listen,” Hermione said, emboldened by his silence, “it’s a lot to think through. We really should talk to an adult about it instead of jumping to our own conclusions. I’m not saying you’re wrong, Harry—don’t look at me like that—I just think we should be cautious.”

“But—”

“Hermione’s right, mate,” Ron said. “We should talk to Dumbledore or McGonagall or someone. Black’s seriously dangerous.”

“ _And_ we should turn in that knife.”

Harry was angry for the rest of the night. He was able to conjure up the same circle of fire inside his mind that he’d imagined during Snape’s Legilimency; it helped him not punch Ron and Hermione, and when he finally fell asleep late that night, the knife tucked firmly under his pillow, he only dreamed of crackling flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pronounce Leonie "Lay-uh-knee," but there are a variety of options. Originally, I didn't want to bring Harry's dead name into the mix because in my opinion it's irrelevant and disrespectful. Plus, I hate choosing a name for a character that already exists because no matter what, it just sounds wrong and dumb imo. So, after a lot of searching, I thought Leonie sounded like something James and Lily would choose--it sounds properly magical and Gryffindor-y (and, once Harry knows it's his dead name, it's one more thing he can feel horribly dreadful about because the hat wanted to put him in Slytherin)--but feel free to disagree! Either way, it won't be mentioned too much more after this; just enough to give some explanations.  
> Also, let me know if there's anything you're totally boggled by. I have a little under 45k written right now and I think everything makes sense, but it's easy to get lost in my sense of plot asldkfhas. Obviously you don't have all of the answers right now because Harry knows very little about anything, but you'll get there.  
> Thanks for reading! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is sometimes smart and sometimes stupid. No matter what, he gets on Snape's nerves.

The next few weeks were filled with rumors about Sirius Black. Harry overheard Hannah Abbott in Herbology saying that he could transform into a flowering shrub and resisted the urge to mention that shrubs couldn’t move but dogs could. He talked to Luna, who mentioned that she’d seen the dog making its way to the castle a few hours before Black had attacked and thought that it was somehow an accomplice—he resisted the urge to tell her the truth flat-out, because while he liked her very much and trusted her with more than most, he wasn’t sure this was his secret to tell.

He was caught between wanting to kill Black and wanting to sit down with him and talk about his parents over tea. Somehow, knowing that Black had known them made the pain of their deaths all the more palpable. It was an ache he carried with him every day: a (supposedly) vicious mass murderer that wanted Harry dead was also the closest tie to his parents he had ever had.

The first Quidditch match was right around the corner and the weather was set to look awful—Harry had learned in his first year that wizards were _much_ better at weather forecasts than the muggle TV. Malfoy claimed he was still recovering from the Hippogriff attack and so Gryffindor had to play Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin in the first Quidditch match. Harry thought Malfoy’s excuse was stupid and told him so in Potions, earning him 10 points from Gryffindor and a detention skinning shrivelfigs.

On the night of the full moon, Luna invited Harry out to see the mooncalves dance. The weather was already much cooler than it had been the week before as the storm moved in, so Harry bundled up with as many sweatshirts as he could and double-layered his socks.

At half-past eleven, he met Luna at the bottom of the stairs in the entrance hall. It wasn’t until they were a few feet from the door that they realized there was something blocking it.

“And where do you two rule-breakers think you are going?” Snape stepped from the shadows looking formidable as ever. In the moonlight, his skin shone even brighter against the black of the night and his robes.

“Oh, hi, professor!” Luna looked perfectly happy to see him, but Harry knew better. She swore Snape was nice to her when he caught her, but she was _Luna—_ Harry was another case entirely. Snape would be thrilled to take points and berate him. He stepped slightly behind Luna as if she could possibly shield him from Snape’s diatribe.

“You cannot go out tonight. I recommend you return to your respective dormitories and catch up on your sleep.”

Huh?

“But Professor Snape, we have to go see the mooncalves,” Luna said. “I promised Harry, and it’s a tradition and—”

“Be that as it may, Ms. Lovegood, no one is allowed outside this evening.”

Snape looked positively sour about it, as if he’d rather not enforce the rule either, and all of a sudden, Harry understood. All the pieces snapped together.

“It’s okay Luna, let’s head back. It’s probably not, ah, safe in the forest tonight anyway. Full moons draw out lots of dangerous creatures, I think.” Snape shot him a suspicious glare and Harry looked away quickly, remembering how easy it was for him to read minds.

“B-but… no one’s ever stopped me before, and I’ve never been harmed by anything! I did it all last year, remember, professor?” Luna’s eyes welled up with tears, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she began to cry. Before Harry could do anything to comfort her, Snape knelt down next to her and spoke in a softer tone than Harry had ever heard.

“I know how important this is to you, Ms. Lovegood,” the professor said. “And I truly regret it, but it is simply not possible for you to venture into the forest during the full moon any longer. Not for the remainder of this year, and possibly past that as well. There have been… recent werewolf sightings that make it highly dangerous for a young student such as yourself.”

Harry was shocked. Not only had Snape _not_ taken points or yelled at them, he was being so nice that he almost worried Polyjuice was involved. Maybe this was the headmaster, playing a trick?

“But maybe I could—” The words sounded strangled, as if Luna was trying very hard to stop crying.

“There is nothing we can do, Ms. Lovegood. But I know your mother will not think ill of you for this—she would want you, more than anything, to be safe and warm and in bed. Traditions are wonderful things, but your memories will always be stronger.”

Luna nodded.

“Do you need any Dreamless Sleep for tonight?”

She nodded again, and Snape withdrew a small vial from his robes.

“Please, return to bed. You will find hot cocoa by your bedside.”

Luna thanked him quietly and, after hugging Harry, made her way towards the stairs again. Harry turned to follow her, but Snape called him back.

“A word, Potter. Privately.”

He followed him numbly into a small offshoot corridor that led down to Snape’s office. The shelves were lined with vials and jars and skulls which were all rather creepy, but the chair Snape conjured for him was plush and warm.

“How did you learn of Professor Lupin’s affliction, as it were? From Ms. Granger, I assume?”

Oh. Harry hadn’t known what Snape had wanted to know, but this made sense.

“Uh, no, Professor. I don’t think she knows. I figured it out after your, er, rant when Black broke in.”

Snape crooked his eyebrow at the word ‘rant,’ but there was really no other way to describe it.

“Yes, Potter, but _how_? I don’t believe I explicitly said anything of the sort.”

“No, sir, you didn’t. It was… a lot of things, I guess. First, Lupin just seems kinda off, doesn’t he? And he has all those scars, and when we did the boggart his fear was a full moon—at first I thought it was an orb, like divination, but I don’t think that could really scare anybody. And then I heard you talking and how much you hated Black and you thought someone was helping him—which I realized was Lupin, ‘cuz I looked at some pictures of Black and my dad and saw Lupin in some of ‘em too. And you called him furry, or something, like an animal, and talked about him being ‘ill’ but like it was a code for something. And then I remembered my dreams and it just—it made sense, I guess. That he was a werewolf. I mean, I saw one, right?”

Harry said all that very quickly; by the end, he was slightly winded. Snape was just staring at him. Finally, he sat back in his chair and steepled his hands, looking satisfied.

“Yes, Potter, that is what you saw in your visions. Five points from Gryffindor.”

“ _From?_ Five points _from_ Gryffindor? Professor, come on!”

“You were able to assay a vast assortment of data and come to a logical conclusion; yes, that is true. However, you were unable to realize the immense danger such a conclusion poses for you and your friends—you had not thought to warn Ms. Lovegood about this evening. Had I not been there, you both could have died.”

“Do you really just let him roam around the forest, sir?”

“Of course not, Potter. Dumbledore is not quite that stupid. He is contained, for the time-being, but accidents, as I am sure you are aware, do happen.”

“Still don’t think you should take points,” Harry muttered.

“Were you an adult responsible for the wellbeing the most injury-prone child in the world, you would understand the constant struggle I am under to appropriately ensure you do not kill yourself daily.”

Snape had been so nice to Luna, but here he was again, being his regular, vile self. It was almost comforting. Almost.

“No offense, professor, but I don’t need an adult responsible for me. I’ve been fine on my own for a while.”

Harry stood to leave, but Snape pulled him back down.

“Sit, you foolish boy. I am not done.” Snape’s mouth was twisted in a weird grimace.

“What is it? _Sir?_ ”

“I require your assurance you will not tell anyone of what you’ve discovered. While I am not the most approving of Professor Dumbledore’s hiring decisions, it would not do to find Hogwarts without a Defense teacher this early in the year.”

Suddenly, Harry was furious.

“Maybe I should tell everyone! After all, if he’s in cahoots with Black then he’s a danger to us all every day, not just once a month. He could kill all of us; Dumbledore is so stupid to let him teach here when he was friends with, with that man! And with my dad! He betrayed him, I know it, they both did, and I should kill them both. They’d deserve it. But no, I have to sit in class with him every day while he just ignores me like I’m something dirty or unwanted and I have to be okay with knowing they were my dad’s best—his best—” Harry was gulping for air and then he was sobbing. He couldn’t stop. All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed with how truly messy his life was. “It’s just… it’s not fair.”

“Life is not _fair,_ Potter.”

“I know that, Snape! I know! Nothing’s ever been fair, ‘cuz if it was I would have been born a boy instead, and my parents would be alive, and a madman wouldn’t be trying to murder me, and I wouldn’t have to dream about my mum screaming while he kills her, and dementors wouldn’t exist, and you’d treat me like you treat Luna, and I wouldn’t have this scar, and my aunt and uncle wouldn’t have kicked me out, and, and, and…”

“I see. I had not expected to evince such a strong reaction with four words, but I… see the merit in your anger.” Snape conjured a box of tissues and passed it across the desk to him. “Control yourself.”

Blowing his nose angrily, Harry muttered, “I wouldn’t tell anyone, anyway. Not really. That's why I didn't tell Luna.”

“Why is that?”

“I know the importance of secrets, Professor. I wouldn’t want anyone blabbing mine, would I.”

Snape looked at him then, probably assessing the truth of it.

“Very good,” he said finally. “I will take you at your word. Now, it is far past curfew, and for some reason you are out of bed, Potter. Detention it is.”

“ _Detention_?”

“Seven o’clock, tomorrow night. Perhaps another round of shrivelfigs will instill the importance of respect, boundaries, and _discretion._ ”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, sir,” Harry protested.

“See that you don’t.”

As Harry stood once more to leave, Snape spoke once more.

“It would do you well to consider that things are not always what they seem. More often than not, people do not deviate into categories of good and evil. It does not behoove you to jump to conclusions when you do not possess all the pieces.”

“When will I know I have all the pieces, sir?”

“When you have a conclusion.”

Well, that made sense.

“And Potter—take this.”

In his outstretched hand, Snape held another vial of Dreamless Sleep.

“You may come to me for more, should it be required. You may go.”

The next morning, when Harry saw Snape teaching Defense instead of Lupin, he didn’t question it. When Snape started lecturing about vampires, though—maybe _he_ was the one who needed to learn about discretion.

↠

Quidditch wasn’t much fun when you were freezing and couldn’t see through the rain. Seeing the Grim again was interesting, though Harry had expected it—he’d slid his wand _and_ the knife into his robes before the match. He’d been tailing Diggory towards the snitch, but instantly changed directions when he saw the dog, furiously diving towards the stands.

He _hadn’t_ expected the dementors.

↠

Losing his Nimbus 2000 wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to Harry that year, but he did mourn its loss. Yet another thing the Whomping Willow got to destroy.

The second time he woke up in the Hospital Wing, after all his friends and the Quidditch team had left, Snape was glaring at him.

“What’d I do this time?”

Snape glared harder.

“It’s not my fault the dementors were there!”

Still more glaring. Harry glared right back, not sure what else to say.

“It interests me greatly, Potter, that you thought a _knife_ a reasonable implement to bring to a Quidditch match. Against Slytherin, I might understand the merit. But Hufflepuff? They are not known for underhanded attacks.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Perhaps because the knife ended up firmly lodged _in your leg_ when you fell, you stupid boy. Dementors are not your responsibility, no, but to have died from such a foolish decision as falling on your own knife—what an unsatisfactory end to the Boy Who Lived’s story.”

So that was why his thigh felt so sore.

“Good thing I’m not dead, then.”

Another glare.

“How did you come about the knife?”

“What?” Harry asked stupidly.

“The knife, Potter.”

“It’s just a random knife.”

Snape hissed. “Do not lie to me, boy. Not only are you terrible at it, but anyone with half a mind knows the significance of this object.”

“Well, I guess I don’t have half a mind!” Harry retorted.

Snape smirked. “No. You do not.” He withdrew the knife from the pocket of his own robe, and Harry watched it glitter in the light. It looked perfectly plain to him, if well-crafted.

“What’s so special about it?”

“You really do not know?” The professor seemed a little surprised, then, but hid it well.

“No, sir, I really don’t.”

“Potter, take a closer look at the handle.” He handed it to Harry handle-first, the blade carefully pinned between his thin fingers. Harry took it gently and examined it. There was nothing… oh, that was something. On the edge, as he ran his fingers along it, a thin script began to shine. With it, a family crest emerged. As soon as he saw it, though, it began to fade back into the metal.

“It says my last name,” Harry said slowly. “Why?”

“Where did you get it?”

A long silence.

“Discretion, right, Professor?”

“If I deem it appropriate.”

“I stole it from Sirius Black.”

Harry almost grinned at the flash-second of sheer shock on Snape’s face.

“And you did so because…”

“Because he had it with him but didn’t use it, and I wanted to know why. Also, it kind of… called me, I guess.”

“Resonant magic.”

“Huh?”

“It is a family heirloom, likely owned by your arrogant father. Further, it is goblin-forged and imbued with your family’s internal magic. You were likely drawn to it because your magic sensed a match.”

“Oh.” Then, “Can I keep it?”

“Are you likely to stab yourself with it again?”

“Probably not.”

Another glare. They were losing their impact—Harry didn’t really mind them anymore.

“Stop making me work so hard to keep you from killing yourself, Potter,” Snape said, and swept from the room. Harry smiled and ran his fingers over the handle to see the crest once more.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes a trip to Hogsmeade and overhears a conversation at the Three Broomsticks. Regular teenage savior-of-the-wizarding-world angst ensues.

After spending the weekend in the hospital wing, Harry was quite happy to return to his classes. Sitting in a bed moping was not his favorite activity, after all. His thigh was still sore where he’d apparently stabbed it—there was no scar or mark, so he couldn’t tell—but he was able to cover the limp up pretty well.

In comparison, Malfoy had finally taken his bandages off but was looking more sullen than ever. In classes he didn’t participate unless called on; he didn’t even talk behind the professors’ backs to Crabbe and Goyle.

“What’s got into him, d’you reckon?” Harry asked Ron after Potions, during which Malfoy hadn’t said a single cruel comment about the state of their potion, which had spat huge gobs of gray, puke-smelling muck all over the classroom.

“I dunno,” Ron said, still trying to scrape some of the now-cemented muck off his robes. “But thank god.”

Neither Ron nor Hermione were staying over winter break. Harry bitterly wished they would, because it would be a lonely few weeks without them, but Bill and Charlie were both going to be home for the holidays and Harry couldn’t blame Ron for wanting to see his brothers, and Hermione was visiting Paris with her parents. Harry wished there was anyone he could visit on breaks; he wished he had brothers to see and parents to miss. Other than his friends, he didn’t really have anyone. Maybe Black would come visit and Harry could kill him—that ought to be entertaining enough.

↠

On the last Hogsmeade weekend, Fred and George cornered Harry and stuffed him into a small, dark closet so they could talk to him. Fighting down his fears of 1. cupboard-under-the-stairs reminiscent rooms and 2. people ganging up on him and beating him up in dark spaces, it took him a few minutes to understand what exactly they were doing—giving him possibly the best present he’d ever received.

The Marauder’s Map was fantastic.

“You can sneak right under the dementors’ big fat noses,” Fred said eagerly.

“We don’t need it anymore,” George reassured Harry. “We’ve got it memorized and, besides, now we’re one step closer to recruiting you as another partner in crime.”

Harry had grinned. As soon as they’d let him go, he’d thrown on his invisibility cloak and made his way to the statue of the one-eyed witch.

↠

Honeyduke’s was incredible. Harry had forgotten to bring any money with him but kept a mental inventory of everything he wanted to try: their made-in-house fudge that came in large slabs in hundreds of different flavors, exploding bonbons with coconut cream fillings, constantly-spinning ‘wands’ of cotton candy that shot shimmers of sparks into the air as they twirled.

It was great fun surprising Ron and Hermione, though Hermione was concerned Black would show up and kill him right in the middle of the candy shop. If Harry was honest, he was a little concerned himself, but let Ron defend him and lead him around the rest of the village.

He was ecstatic to finally be out with his friends, to walk the streets of Hogsmeade like any other student (even if he was invisible). He was ecstatic to share a sugar quill with Hermione, to listen as she recited the history of the little village. He was ecstatic to pop into Gladrags Wizardwear, where he found some very ugly socks that he thought would be perfect for Dobby if he ever saw him again. He was ecstatic to visit Splintwiches Sporting Needs—Ron tried to convince him to buy a new broom, but not only did he _not_ have several hundred galleons on hand at the moment, he still felt a dull ache from the loss of his Nimbus 2000.

He was significantly less ecstatic when they went to the Three Broomsticks and learned how thoroughly Sirius Black had betrayed his parents.

He’d known Black had been James’ best friend, but not that he’d been—still was—Harry’s godfather. He’d known Black had betrayed his family by siding with Voldemort, but not that he’d betrayed them by literally giving them up. He’d been the Secret Keeper, whatever that was. His father had trusted Black, and how had he repaid him? By telling Voldemort where they were. By leading Voldemort straight to them on the night of Halloween. By leaving Harry parentless and alone.

Harry didn’t go back to Hogwarts. With his invisibility cloak, he was able to run from the Three Broomsticks (and away from Ron and Hermione). They couldn’t even call him back, because he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

In the bright of day and covered in snow, Hogsmeade didn’t look much like it had over the summer. He didn’t recognize much, but by following the main street to the end, where the shops were less colorful and boisterous than those where the students congregated, he found the old, weather-washed sign for the Hog’s Head Inn, and stumbled inside, slipping his cloak off as he entered.

Despite the bright day outside, the pub was dim and shadowy. All the windows were covered in a layer of grime, and if Harry hadn’t just been outside, he would have had no idea what time it was. It could have been nighttime—everything was yellow-tinged and cozy, blanketed in a haze of smoke and grumpiness. If that made any sense at all.

The pub was empty, save for a few drunks in the corner. Harry thought he recognized one or two of them from the last time he’d been there but couldn’t be sure.

Aberforth was wiping glasses behind the bar. He looked up as Harry walked in, the door creaking as it shut, and gave a toothy grin.

“Potter! Never thought I’d see you back here, did I.”

Harry, breathing heavy from running—and from panic, and rage, and adrenaline, and all sorts of things he didn’t want to think about—pulled himself onto a tall bar stool and slumped against the bar.

“Hi, Aberforth,” he said heavily. “Can I hang out here for a bit?”

Aberforth gave him an appraising look, nodded his head, and poured butterbeer into a dusty mug, leaving a thick head of foam on the top. Harry gulped nearly half of it down, thumping it back onto the counter and wiping his mouth. It rushed through him, bright and fizzy, a shoot of energy bubbling through his veins.

“Thanks,” he said.

“What’s got you fussed?” Aberforth asked, leaning against the bar and studying him.

Harry waved his hand. “Nothing, really. Just… whew.”

Aberforth let him sit for a while longer, giving him space to breathe, which Harry took gratefully. His heart was beating too fast for his liking.

“Aren’t you s’posed to not be here, boy? I was told those dementors were out here for your sake.”

Harry’s mug burst into pieces.

“Oi!” Aberforth jumped back as the remaining butterbeer splattered onto the bar and onto his shirt.

“Sorry, Aberforth. God, I’m really sorry. I’m sor—”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Calm down.” The man waved his wand, which shot out a puff of smoke but didn’t do much else. “Damn.” He picked up a dirty rag and mopped up the mess on the bar.

Harry tried to help by piling the shards of glass together, but promptly cut the tip of his finger on one, drips of blood falling onto the wood. One of the drunks in the corner was laughing, presumably at him.

“I’m really sorry,” he tried to say again, but Aberforth cut him off.

“Don’t even think it, Potter. Y’think I don’t have bar fights in here once a week? This ol’ place has seen far worse than a spot of angry magic.”

Harry sighed again, his hands shaking a little with the rush of accidental magic and the fury still coursing through him.

“So,” Aberforth said, his brow furrowed into one long stretch, “Out with it. What’s th’matter?”

“Sirius Black is the fucking matter,” Harry said, voice rising. “He was their friend! My parents’ friend! And he betrayed them and got them killed. And now he’s gonna kill me—unless I kill him first!”

Aberforth didn’t seem surprised to hear any of this.

“You knew?” Harry gasped. “How could _you_ know but nobody told me? Not even Dumbledore! You’d think he’d realize I should know about the man who’s stalking me all over the country, right? But no-o, I don’t get to know anything; I have to figure it out for myself and do everything on my own and if that means killing Black myself, then so be it.”

Aberforth laughed, interrupting Harry’s rant.

“My brother always was good at keeping secrets and royally messing things up for the rest of us,” he said.

Harry's mind reeled with the sudden information.

“Your brother? Dumbledore’s your brother?”

“Thought you knew,” Aberforth said. “Though I don’t suppose he’d mention me, would’e? Listen, Potter, you can’t blame him too much.”

“Of course I can,” Harry said, though he felt a little bad about insulting Dumbledore now he knew Aberforth was his brother. “Every year he just lies and hides things and makes everything worse! I’m sick of it! If he hadn’t have made Black the Secret Keeper, everything would have been fine. _He’s_ the one responsible for my parents’ dying, he’s the one—”

“No, Potter, he’s not. It’s You-Know-Who responsible for that one. My brother has his fair share of bad habits and personality traits, but he never once wanted you or your parents hurt. I promise you that. Ya gotta calm down, kid.”

“When will people stop telling me to fucking calm down?”

“When you stop swearing unnecessarily and start listening to reason,” Aberforth said.

Harry deflated. “Sorry. Bad habit, I guess.”

“No issue here, Potter, but other folks won’t take so kindly to an angry spot of yelling. Now, about Black.”

Harry started to say something again, but Aberforth cut him off.

“Listen: no one knows why he did what he did. Not even Albus. But You-Know-Who… well, he gets to people. One way or another, he would’ve gotten to you and your parents. Black’s just another pawn, Potter, another idiot being used by a mad genius. He deserves to be blamed, sure, but you have to remember the real person at fault here.”

“Voldemort,” Harry murmured, his heart aching.

Aberforth nodded. “And so long as you’re bloodlusting after Black, tryin’ ta kill him and wipe him off the planet, you’re playin’ right into how that creep sees the world. Don’t let him win. Not again.”

“But he’s _dead_ , Aberforth. He’s gone, and Black’s not.”

“It’s not your job to kill every bad man you see, Harry.”

“I killed _him,_ didn’t I?”

“Don’t be stupid, boy. You may’ve killed him, I don’t rightly know, but that was with the heart of a bleedin’ baby. That wasn’t conscious. You didn’t have any other option—whatever happened was unavoidable, I reckon. Killing takes work,” Aberforth said darkly, eyes hooded. Harry had a nagging feeling he wasn’t speaking generally.

“I know. I just…” he sighed. He didn’t really know anything, did he? He didn’t know what he wanted at all. Part of him desperately hoped Black would come after him again; even if he couldn’t hex him properly—he still didn’t know very many good curses—he could gut him with the knife.

“This summer,” Harry said, trying to piece together his thoughts, “I almost killed my aunt. Well, she’s not my aunt, not really, but I have to call her that. I… my accidental magic… started choking her. And I had to make myself stop. I didn’t want to. I wanted her to _hurt._ She said, she said such awful things.”

He broke off, but Aberforth just looked at him. Taking a big breath, Harry continued.

“I think… I think I _could_ kill someone again. I killed Quirrell when I was eleven. I kind of had to, I guess, like with Voldemort, but I didn’t… I didn’t feel bad about it. I didn’t even really think I’d killed him until recently; I hadn’t thought about it at all. It had just _happened._ Does that make me… like them? There’s something inside me that feels wrong, that feels broken. Sometimes even my friends, the people I love—I want to hurt them. And I don’t know why, and I can’t help it. I think I’m… I think I might be evil, Aberforth. Last year, everyone thought I was the heir of Slytherin. I’m not, but I think I am, in some ways, Voldemort’s heir. It’s like… he’s a part of me. Inside me. I can feel him, and it makes me want to lash out and hurt everything around me. But it’s not just him—it’s me, too. I’m just… broken.”

“Harry.” Aberforth was looking at him more intently than Harry had ever seen. In that moment, the resemblance to his brother was more present than ever: his brilliant blue eyes were wide and piercing, his face deadly serious. It wasn’t hard to imagine him as a younger man, fresh and fierce and determined, with dreams and wishes beyond keeping a bar and raising goats. “You are _not_ evil. You’re not broken. You’re not any of these things, son. I’m not… I’m not ‘xactly the best sort to talk to about this—nor’s my brother, now I think about it—but you gotta stop blaming yourself for the shite that evil bastard’s done to you.”

Harry felt emotions battling inside him for control: guilt and relief, hope and despair. He wasn’t sure he could trust anything the barman was saying, but he desperately wanted to. 

“I don’t know why I’m such a mess,” he whispered, looking down at his hands instead of at the man in front of him.

“It’s because you’re bloody human, aren’t ya? And because of the all the shite those great bastards have put you through. You’re a child, Harry. You’re not a soldier, or a weapon, or a pawn, or an evil, manipulative bastard. You’re just _you._ And practically any adult you’ve ever known has hurt you, taught you messed up shite about yourself and about the world. You can’t believe them, Harry. They’re lying.”

Aberforth hesitated, and then stretched his hand out on the counter, palm facing up. Slowly, Harry placed his own rather smaller hand on top of his; Aberforth covered it with his other, clasping his hand tightly.

“You’re just a wee thing,” the barman said, eyes bright and shining. “You’ve been dealt a whole deck of terrible cards, and people keep trying to tell you who you ought to be, what you ought to do. Don’t listen to ‘em. Just be a kid, why don’t ya. Let my brother take care of things for once.”

“What if Black comes back? He keeps... following me.”

“ _Tell someone,_ ” Aberforth said. “Stop carrying the whole wizarding world on your damn shoulders.”

Harry sighed heavily.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner,” he said eventually, pulling his hand from Aberforth’s and changing the subject. “I should’ve visited before.”

“For god’s sake, stop apologizing! You’ll drive me crazy, I swear.” Aberforth shook his head seriously, but he was grinning. “Ach, no hard feelings. I didn’t ‘spect you to come visit after the summer. But I’m glad you did, kid. Next time you’ve got some emotional baggage, you come running right on down to the old Hog.”

Harry grinned. “Thanks, Aberforth.”

“Get on back to Hogwarts, all right? Stop worrying about the stuff you can’t control, and start worrying about regular kid things, like how you're gonna skive off class tomorrow or how you can irritate Filch the most without gettin' caught.”

↠

Back at the castle, Harry apologized for leaving Ron and Hermione so suddenly, and told them he’d visited the Hog’s Head.

“I told you it was real,” he said happily, ladling potato chowder into his bowl. “And you’ll love this—the barman? He’s Dumbledore’s _brother._ ”

He grinned at the instant reactions from his friends, Ron asking what a Dumbledore would be doing running a run-down inn, Hermione gasping in shock and asking what he was like. Dinner was a happy affair, none of them focusing on what they’d learned at the Three Broomsticks. He entertained them by imitating Aberforth’s accent, which was much rougher than Dumbledore’s, and talking about the various goats and goat-related décor he’d seen strewn about the building. They resolved to visit the inn together after break, so that Harry could introduce them and they could all try firewhisky—he reckoned Aberforth wouldn’t be too stingy, even if they were only thirteen.

Harry waved Hermione off to bed cheerily, promising to owl her over break while she was gone. He said the same to Ron as they went to bed, sliding into their respective beds and pulling their curtains closed.

Blanketed in warmth and the promise of people who were kind to him, who possibly even _cared_ for him, Harry fell asleep peacefully enough. If he dreamed about watching Aunt Marge choke until her head popped clean off her neck like a balloon, he ignored it. If he dreamed about finding Black and doing to him what he’d done to Quirrell—igniting his skin and burning him to death—he ignored that, too.

When he woke up, Ron and Hermione were gone, and he was alone in Gryffindor Tower.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter holidays shenanigans.

Practically no one was left over the winter hols. Apart from Harry, the Gryffindor tower was empty save a few wandering ghosts. For the most part, only upperclassmen stayed over the holidays to study for their N.E.W.T.S and work on apprenticeship applications and whatnot, so Harry really didn’t know anyone. Only a few staff were still there—Dumbledore, Pomfrey, McGonagall, Trelawney, and Snape were the ones he recognized. Luna, his one good friend outside of Gryffindor, had also left to see her father, who had just returned from Germany, where he’d been researching Crumple-Horned Snorkacks for the last few months.

With all his friends gone, Harry was alone. Following some of Aberforth’s advice, he did his best not to wallow or feel sorry for himself. He decided that the best way to get through the holidays on his own was to simply keep busy.

Harry spent the first morning cleaning and organizing his trunk, sorting out the bits and bobs he didn’t need anymore. It was good to have at least one thing in his life in order, even if it wouldn’t last more than a few days. By the time he was done, he had a good pile of old mismatched Dursley socks and several of Dudley’s pit-stained shirts to get rid of. It was satisfying to be able to throw them out; for once, he could just slip into Hogsmeade and buy some new ones that actually fit.

He’d slept in that morning and missed breakfast, so by lunchtime his stomach was rumbling grumpily. Pulling on his robes, he walked down to the Great Hall, his footsteps seemingly amplified by how empty the castle was around him.

Dumbledore, under some pretense that close quarters drew people closer together, had transfigured the long house tables into one round table that sat in the middle of the hall. Harry grinned to see Snape looking incredibly uncomfortable to be sitting that close to his students, few though there were; his nose was flared as if he could _smell_ the foolish, arrogant wand-waving or whatever. All in all, there couldn’t have been twenty people in the whole castle. What shocked Harry the most, though, wasn’t Snape but _Draco Sodding Malfoy,_ looking very annoyed to be in such close company with anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin. From the entrance, Harry could see two seats left—one between Snape and a burly seventh year, and one next to Malfoy and Madame Pomfrey. Harry rushed to Snape’s side of the table but before he could get there another seventh year took his spot, chatting amiably to her friend. Fan. Tastic. Screaming internally, Harry scraped back his seat and sat down next to Malfoy.

“Now that we are all assembled, let’s dig in,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. A pile of platters popped into existence, the table groaning slightly under the weight of all the roast chicken, mashed potatoes, rolls, steamed vegetables, and salads. Carafes of water and pumpkin juice appeared, as well as pots of tea and coffee. For a while, the table was just an awkward bustle of elbows knocking together as they tried to pass all the food around. A shy first-year Hufflepuff tipped a bowl of parsnips into McGonagall’s lap; trying to clean it up, he spilled his water, too. McGonagall, her lips tight and eyes narrow, _evanesco_ ed the mess and reassured the student that there was nothing to be upset by. Snape, across the table, caught her eye and smirked.

“So, why are you still here, Malfoy?” Harry hissed to the pointy-face git sitting next to him. “Punishment for trying to kill hippogriffs?”

Malfoy scowled.

“None of your business, Potter. Sod off.”

So he did, focusing instead on his plate of peas and potatoes. Malfoy excused himself before pudding even started, and it was much more enjoyable to eat without him.

But it was really quite boring to have a huge castle and no one to talk to. Harry folded and re-folded all his clothes, flipped disinterestedly through his books, and moved a pile of blankets and pillows into the common room so he could laze about comfortably in front of the fire, but within a few hours he was dead bored. There was simply no one to talk to and nothing to do. By dinnertime, Harry had made up his mind to sit next to him again. At least he’d have a way to work off some energy; he couldn’t kill Black—not yet—but he could annoy Malfoy half to death.

The Slytherin scowled as Harry pulled out his chair and plopped down next to him. Harry gave him a cheery smile and then laughed at the surprise on Malfoy’s face. This would be fun.

Snape, he noticed, was staring at him suspiciously across the table. This time, Snape had made Madame Pomfrey and McGonagall sit next to him; he looked far happier to not sit next to his students, particularly not next to the two seventh years who apparently were dating, as they’d started kissing each other halfway through lunch. Snape had taken twenty points from both their houses and told them he’d happily put them in detention all break if they didn’t control themselves.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said halfway through dinner. “Didn’t you once say you had a loving, caring family who _always_ wanted you home for the holidays? What changed, you poor thing? Mummy and daddy don’t want you anymore?”

Malfoy’s face blanched.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed, and rushed out of the hall, nearly tripping over his chair in his haste to leave. That was interesting.

Snape caught Harry’s eye and glared at him. Oops.

The next day, after another night of restless sleep and bad dreams, Harry again sat next to Malfoy for dinner. This time, he didn’t try to start a conversation, instead listening to Dumbledore’s monologue about the time he tried to knit his pet phoenix, Fawkes, a Christmas sweater. Apparently, the phoenix was _not_ fond of religious celebrations.

When Dumbledore just wouldn’t stop talking, Harry sighed loudly and pushed his pudding away. He was tired of the headmaster’s pretenses—did he ever shut up? He didn’t seem to care whether his audience was interested or not; either way, he just kept on babbling.

“Problem, my boy?” Dumbledore asked him, his eyes twinkling.

“Not at all, sir,” Harry said, carefully avoiding the man’s eyes. He was wise to that trick now. “Just stuffed from all this delicious food.”

Dumbledore smiled jovially and resumed his story, wherein he was now describing precisely what he had to do for Fawkes to forgive him—buy him candied crickets and singlehandedly perform opera’s every night for a month.

Harry snorted contemptuously. “Even his bird can’t stand him,” he muttered.

Malfoy elbowed him in his ribs.

“Shut up,” Malfoy whispered, his mouth quirked.

The headmaster broke into a very slow, off-key rendition of Dido’s Lament.

“Tell _him_ that,” Harry said, holding back another snort.

↠

Somehow, Malfoy and Harry ended up in the library together the next day.

After several years with Ron, Harry knew he wasn’t good at Wizard’s Chess. Surprisingly, however, Malfoy was even worse.

“Knight to E5,” Malfoy said confidently for the third time. His knight just stared at him, tapping its foot. “Why isn’t it moving?”

“Knights can’t move like that, Malfoy.” Harry groaned—he’d already explained this an hour before. “They move in L-shapes, or something.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I’m not disagreeing, I’m just telling you why he won’t move.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry grinned.

↠

“You know, Potter, I think Lupin hates you even more than he hates me.”

“Nah, I reckon it’s equal. He doesn’t think either of us exists, does he?”

“I suppose you’re right. But surely, he would love _you_. The precious Boy Who Lived. His best friend’s son.”

Harry scowled.

“Speaking of _love,_ Malfoy, where’s your father? Too busy to spend time with his precious son?”

“Something like that,” Malfoy said quietly. “Check.”

↠

Snape did not approve of Harry talking to Malfoy, that much was clear. But Harry wasn’t too keen on the dungeons over break, so the professor never got a chance to yell at him about it—he settled for glaring at them during meals while they traded insults and cracked jokes at the headmaster’s expense.

Over breakfast one morning—two days before Christmas eve—Malfoy got a letter. He read it quickly and then excused himself from the table, his face crestfallen. Harry watched him go curiously, and then turned back to his fruit and yogurt. Though the boys had a tentative… acquaintanceship… these days, emotions weren’t really their strong suit.

↠

“All right, Malfoy?”

The Slytherin boy didn’t respond. His usually pale face was, well, pale. His eyes looked rather bloodshot. He was pushing his dinner around on his plate, which Harry had never _ever_ seen him do—after all, Malfoys had perfect manners. Or something. Harry didn’t want to pry, so he left him alone.

The next morning, Malfoy didn’t show up for breakfast at all. Harry felt strangely empty without anyone to talk to and scowled into his tea.

↠

“Are you sulking or something?”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Are you not getting any Christmas presents?”

“Shut _up,_ Potter.”

“Make me.”

Malfoy punched him in the face. Snape took points from Gryffindor.

↠

Harry visited Hagrid and told him about Malfoy punching him in the face. Hagrid told him that Buckbeak was probably going to be killed and gave him some tips for throwing punches. Harry took them under advisement, but the next time he saw Malfoy, he was crying. Harry really didn’t want to punch someone while they were crying.

“Really, Malfoy, what is it?”

“It’s none of your business.”  
Harry sighed.

“Malfoy, I—huh. Well I don’t _care_ about you, because who cares if you’re okay or not, but your constant moping is getting annoying. I can’t properly deck you when you’re like this. It’s cheating.”

“Why would you have any reason to hit _me_? You’re the one being frightfully rude, Potter.”

“Buckbeak.”

“Ah.” Malfoy went paler than normal. “That.”

↠

It was Christmas Eve, and Dumbledore had lit up the Great Hall with thousands of fairy lights—which may have been actual fairies, after Harry thought about it. The fireplaces were at full blaze. The ceiling was a blanket of falling snow. Harry was miserable.

It wasn’t that he even really believed in God or anything—the Dursleys had certainly never taken him to _church._ Heaven forbid. He didn’t have a reason to celebrate Christmas, not really, and he’d spent enough of them watching through the slots of his cupboard door to feel justified in his misery. The twinkling lights, the warm glow, the large stack of presents, all the cakes and puddings that he’d always had to prepare but never got to eat—he was prepared to wallow. It didn’t help that his scar was itching off and on all day.

“What’s up your ass, Potter? I thought I was the pissy one.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my turn.” Malfoy really did have such a rude mouth. It was growing on Harry.

“Oi.” Malfoy poked him in the side.

“Hmm?”

“It actually _is_ your turn.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He pushed his rook forward.

“Merlin,” Malfoy sneered. “Apologizing to a Malfoy? Something must truly be wrong.”

“I’m apologizing, git, because I feel bad about beating you for the thousandth time. Checkmate.”

“Bastard.”

Harry stuck out his tongue.

↠

None of the food at dinner was appetizing—the smell was kind of nauseating, and Harry kept to his tea and a few biscuits—and Dumbledore was annoying him even more than usual. Harry spent most of dinner glaring at the headmaster. He wasn’t sure why, but he was enraged by everything the man did that night. He fought the wild urge to hex him. Where was that even coming from?

On the way out of the Great Hall, Harry passed out, fell on his face, and had another vision. Snape was not pleased.

“I don’t think it means anything,” Harry said weakly in the hospital wing.

“Well, Potter, if you were unable to glean any hint of importance from it then it must be absolutely harmless. Yes, I’m sure the Dark Lord was merely wishing you a Happy Christmas. _Legilimens._ ”

Snape did admit, eventually, that he couldn’t tell what it meant either. A rat, creeping through what looked like a tunnel for what seemed like forever. Just as it reached the end of the tunnel, the vision ended.

“Ron has a rat,” Harry pointed out. “And I think it’s missing. Maybe I’m supposed to find it.”

“And the Dark Lord cares about a rat because…”

“Maybe it’s not Voldemort,” Harry said, ignoring Snape’s flinch. “Maybe it’s just… a premonition, or something. Maybe Voldemort didn’t even send me the first ones—it could just be a coincidence my scar hurt. Maybe he’s not gaining strength at all!”

“And you’re _Harry Potter,_ so of course you just happen to be capable of seeing into the future with no prior practice or noticeable skill.”

“Maybe it’s not the future.”

Snape growled. Harry thought he was being perfectly reasonable.

“Potter, while it is true that your visions are not clearly interpretable, divination rarely is. However, to dismiss the Dark Lord as a reasonable threat in this case is not only stupid, it’s reckless. Regardless of how you are acquiring these premonitions, you must regard them with caution and mistrust. If you see a rat in a tunnel, do not go into the tunnel. It’s as simple as that.”

↠

When Harry woke up the next morning, his presents were at the foot of the hospital bed. So was Malfoy.

“Happy Christmas, Potter.”

“Did you get me something?”

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

“Good, then.”

“Why are you here, Malfoy?”

“Seeing you faint like a girl last night was funny. I wanted to make sure you knew I was laughing.”

“Thanks.”

Malfoy threw one of Harry’s presents at him; he caught it nimbly and shook it. No sound. There was no label on the outside, either, so he couldn’t even tell who it was from. Maybe Luna? She’d be the type to forget to sign her own name. He tore open the wrapping. Underneath the paper was a dark wood box, polished and shining. He opened the box. He dropped it on the bed. He closed his eyes and thought about rings of fire and took a few deep breaths.

“What is it?”

Harry nudged it towards Malfoy, trying not to look at it.

“Oh.”

 _Oh_ was right. Inside the box was an old photograph of a young couple holding their child between them. The man was Indian with thick-rimmed glasses and a bright, glowing smile. The woman was white with a mess of auburn hair that fell down her shoulders. The boy was Harry, his brown skin a perfect mix of his parents, his black hair messy like his dad, his wide eyes bright green like his mum. His forehead unblemished. The photograph was spattered with blood.

“There’s a note,” Malfoy said quietly. He’d picked up the photograph and was inspecting it.

“I can’t…” Harry fluttered his hand, unable to finish his sentence. Malfoy nodded curtly and began to read.

“ _Dear Harry,_

_I hope you have missed me as much as I have missed you. Such a shame we have not yet officially met; I have heard you are a bright and powerful child. I shall be seeing you very soon, young Harry, very soon indeed. Or perhaps I should be calling you Leonie._

_Yours faithfully, yours forever,_

_Lord Voldemort_.”

Malfoy rapidly set the photograph back in the box and wiped his hands on his robes. His hands were shaking as much as Harry’s. Interesting.

“Malfoy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is your father… Do you know where he is?”

Malfoy was silent for a moment, looking down at the stack of presents next to him.

“ _Called away,_ he said. _Important business._ He wouldn’t tell my mother what it was. He just left. He sent me a letter the other day, said he wouldn’t be back for a long time. Said that she’s leaving, too.”

Malfoy’s voice broke while he spoke, but Harry politely ignored it. His wasn’t too steady either.

“Malfoy?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you might need to go get Snape.”

↠

The letter wasn’t in the Dark Lord’s handwriting. Snape knew that straight away, but a few detection spells revealed that it was written by a Muggle—probably by force, under threat or Imperius. But that meant there was a chance it _wasn’t_ actually Him behind it—possibly just an angry Death Eater. Lucius _had_ disappeared rather suddenly.

Of course, that didn’t explain the boy’s visions or frequent pain from his curse scar—but a little self-delusion never hurt anyone.

Except…

“What’s this name, Potter? Who is Leonie?”

“I think it’s…” The boy shot a glance at Draco, who had taken a seat at the foot of Potter’s bed and refused to leave the room. Stupid brat—they were one and the same, those two. Both stubborn, arrogant, meddlesome boys.

“I think it’s my name, sir. But I don’t know.”

Ah. That would explain his reluctance to tell Draco.

“You don’t _know._ ”

“No, sir. Do you?” The boy was running his sheet between his fingers and rocking slightly back and forth. Snape flicked his wand and a calming draught appeared on the bedside table.

“Drink that. Why wouldn’t you know your own name?”

Potter didn’t drink it.

“I asked _you,_ Professor Snape. Do you remember? ‘Cuz Pomfrey doesn’t and I don’t, and I don’t think anyone else does except—except—”

“Except who, Potter?”

“…Sirius Black, sir.”

Snape felt a cluster headache coming on.

↠

“This is all rather interesting, isn’t it, Severus?” Dumbledore asked mildly. Snape suppressed his response, which was something along the lines of ‘stop lying to me about very important information that I need to know, you manipulative old coot, and tell me what you know.’ That wouldn’t get him very far.

“Yes, headmaster.”

He’d regretted asking Dumbledore to floo down to the hospital wing, but there was really no other option. It was worth it for the slim possibility that the headmaster would actually tell him something for once. He was searching for all the pieces too, just like the Potter brat.

The upside of Dumbledore being there was that Draco was much more prone to obeying his orders than Snape’s. After shooting a meaningful look at Potter that implied ‘you’re definitely explaining everything after he’s gone, or I’ll hex you into oblivion,’ the boy had respectfully scampered.

“Well, well, well, what to do.” Dumbledore hummed amiably and looked fondly at Potter from the armchair he’d conjured to rest in. “You have absolutely no recall of the name, my boy?”

“No, sir,” Potter said, managing to hide _almost_ all of his contempt for the question, which had already been asked three times. “Only that Black called me it. Maybe Black sent the letter?”

“No, I do not believe so,” Dumbledore said.

“Then what do you believe, headmaster?” Snape said stiffly. It was like trying to take a cat on a walk, prodding and pushing it along while it was content to simply lay in the sun.

Dumbledore smiled genially. 

“I believe, Severus, that another round of Legilimency might serve us all well. It will be important to establish the significance of the name before we can establish how it ties into the letter and into Lord Voldemort’s plans.”

Snape flinched at the name. Potter flinched too, but for a different reason.

“But if I don’t have any memories of it, what’s the point?”

“My guess, dear boy, is that your memories are blocked, as are ours. However, you noted that the name sounds familiar to you, and based on the evidence it does seem quite likely it was your given name. If we can unlock any memories from before you were Harry, we may be able to understand quite a bit more about many things.”

Potter didn’t seem to be very happy about it but allowed Snape into his mind once more. The shape of his mind had grown familiar to Snape, a long and narrow forest covered in moss and mushrooms. It seemed easy to walk through, until you tried to see past the trees. Things were very firmly lodged in place.

“ _This may hurt,_ ” he told Potter, before uprooting several dozen pine trees.

“ _May? Try ‘most definitely positively will absolutely cause insufferable pain.’_ ”

“ _You’re still talking, aren’t you?_ ”

And then he was through, into the sky above the trees. His own consciousness surged within the boy’s mind, ignoring the mental wince of pain, and landed in another place entirely.

For one thing, it was much darker, tinged with the same energy he’d felt at Petunia’s home.

For another, Harry Potter didn’t seem to exist. _Leonie,_ on the other hand, was very much so present. Such a stupid name—James’ decision, most likely. He would have expected his heir to follow him into Gryffindor. The prat.

“ _I don’t remember this,_ ” Potter said. “ _Or, I remember it, but only as I’m watching it. How could I just have forgotten?_ ”

Memories were slowly filtering through, images of Potter as a toddler. Being scolded, punished, locked in his cupboard. Watching his cousin play with his toys. Watching his cousin open birthday presents. Watching his aunt kiss his cousin on the forehead.

And then further back, images of him as a baby, fresh and new and unscarred. Being held, and loved, and treasured. Flying on a toy broom. Chasing the Potter’s cat. Lily cooing at him, James singing a stupid song. “Where’s my lion, Leonie? Where’s my little lion?” Sirius, throwing him up into the air as he screamed with delight. Remus, sitting quietly as Potter pulled his hair and threw up on him.

And then forward again—Lily screaming. A flash of green light. A child crying. A thin, red-eyed man standing over the child’s crib. “Hello, little Leonie.” Voldemort, picking up and rocking the child in his arms, wiping his tears, telling Potter in a sing-song tone exactly what he’d just done to his parents. Then setting him back down in the crib, pointing his wand right between the boy’s eyes. Excruciating pain, like a lightning bolt flashing through the child’s body. And then what felt like hours and hours and hours of the boy sitting, crying, waiting for someone to come find him in the dark and lonely room. Crying for his mum to wake up.

“ _It hurts, Professor._ ”

Snape withdrew back into the forest. It was much as it had been, but the trees were still uprooted. They were already starting to rot from the inside out. Everything felt more fragile than before. Like the forest itself was bleeding.

“ _Get out. Please._ ”

He filtered his consciousness from the forest, watching the leaves sway in the breeze. He had to be careful; Harry Potter was on his way to breaking Snape's immutably frozen heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all like Draco! He and Harry aren't going to be instant best friends, but I find that boredom + lots of time is a great combination for getting to know a person :)


	16. Chapter 16

Harry was exhausted. Thoroughly.

It had hurt like hell when Snape broke through his mental barriers, and every night since he’d been barraged with memories he’d forgotten—and memories most people wouldn’t even have. Things from when he was just months old were suddenly vivid and bright in his dreams. Which was wonderful, because he got to see his parents, but also terrible, because he got to see his parents and his parents’ friends—namely a Defense professor, a mass murderer, and another mousy-haired guy named Peter.

In a way, he felt like he _knew_ Sirius Black now, and it made him sick. He’d seen him nap sprawled on the sofa, chase a cat (in both his human and dog form), swap presents for Christmas, cook dinner for Lily and James, tickle Harry into oblivion, change Harry’s hair different colors until Lily jinxed him, try to take Harry on a motorcycle ride until James jinxed him, try to teach Harry how to be a dog until Lupin jinxed him… he’d seen him kiss Lupin, too, a memory Harry tried very hard to forget before classes resumed and he had to see his professor every week.

He'd seen all of that, seen the way his parents had clearly loved Black. And then he’d gotten them both killed.

After Snape’s little Legilimency excursion, they’d had a chat with the headmaster, who most definitely was hiding something. A lot of somethings. In sum, their conversation went like this:

  1. Harry’s pre-Harry identity had somehow been Vanished and the majority of the Wizarding World can’t remember anything from before he was Harry. Dumbledore may or may not know why.
  2. Sirius Black still remembered because a. friends with Harry’s parents b. Azkaban and c. he’s a dog most of the time. (Oh, yeah, Harry finally told them that. Neither of them seemed very surprised).
  3. Remus Lupin had probably somehow blocked out Harry entirely because a. friends with Harry’s parents and b. werewolf. (“Mental defenses work in mysterious ways,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. Harry thought that was stupid—Legilimency existed for a reason, didn’t it?)
  4. Harry’s dreams were definitely connected to Voldemort and either worked in symbols or predicted the future. Dumbledore may or may not know why.
  5. Speaking of Voldemort, _he_ probably remembered Harry’s former identity because a. tried to kill him and formed a mental bond and b. he was kinda dead when Harry actually became Harry. Dumbledore may or may not know where he is and how he’s gaining strength.



And finally,

  1. Draco Malfoy was not to be trusted with any of this no matter how much he whined and begged. (This was from Snape, who fixed Harry with a very intent glare as he said it).



“I kinda have to tell him about the name, though, don’t I? Or… Maybe you could Obliviate him,” he told Snape hopefully. Snape did that thing with his lips where he was trying not to grin.

“Memory charms don’t solve everything, Potter. That’s a conversation you’ll have to work through on your own.”

Damn.

Since then, he’d sorted through all his presents—there was another unlabeled one, which Harry had a mild panic attack over and took immediately to Snape, who checked it for curses and then ripped it open only to find a very colorful painting of mooncalves from Luna, who indeed _had_ forgotten to write her name. Snape’s mouth went all sorts of quirky at that. He’d written thank you notes to everyone except the Dursleys, who’d sent him a stale gumball. He’d even looked at his homework (key word: _looked_ ).

What he had yet to do was have that very awful no good conversation with Malfoy. Not for lack of prodding on the Slytherin’s part.

“What happened, Potter?”

“You can trust me, come onnnnnnn.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll never play chess with you again.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Harry?”

Harry had choked back a laugh at the last one. “Worst attempt yet, _Draco._ ”

But he knew it had to happen eventually. Not all of it—just the one bit. He wanted to get it over with before classes started again; doing so would hopefully minimize the damage of Malfoy’s big fat mouth.

Still, he was a master at procrastinating. 

The day before the Hogwarts Express returned, Harry grabbed Malfoy’s arm after dinner.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said. He was surprised when Malfoy followed him up to the astronomy tower without complaint.

“What, you want to look at the stars with me, Potter?”

“Best place to talk without anyone listening in.”

“There’s not even twenty people here,” Malfoy drawled. “Who exactly do you expect to eavesdrop?”

“I dunno,” Harry said, blushing and looking out at the sky instead of Malfoy. “Just in case, I guess. It’s hard enough telling you.”

Malfoy perked up at that, and leaned expectantly against a wall, staring at him.

“Professing your undying love?”

“Stop making fun or I won’t tell you!”

That shut him up.

“So, the letter. From Voldemort. And he, uh, called me. Well. You know. The other name.”

Draco crooked his eyebrow and Harry groaned. Why was this so hard every single time?

“So-basically-I-was-born-a-girl-and-that-was-my-name-except-I’m-really-a-boy-and-I-don’t-want-anybody-to-know-especially-not-your-stupid-Slytherin-pals-who-will-probably-kill-me-if-they-find-out,” he said in one big exhale.

Draco stared for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“Shut up! I knew you would be like this, I knew it. God, Malfoy, you better not tell or I’ll fucking blackmail you and—”

“Merlin, Potter, what a mouth.” Draco’s cheeks were pink from laughing, his mouth still pulled into an obnoxious grin.

“I won’t let you ruin this for me, Malfoy, I won’t. You might think it’s funny but it’s my fucking life and I didn’t choose this and—”

“Potter, shut it.” And then when that didn’t work, “Harry. _Please_.”

Harry _pleased_.

“I’m not laughing because of that.”

“Then what _are_ you laughing at?”

“It’s just… Honestly, you get a letter from the Dark Lord and you’re worried about your name? Where are your priorities?”

Harry scowled and chose to ignore Malfoy’s temporary rationality.

“Look, I’m not going to tell. Okay? That doesn’t matter to me that much.”

“It doesn’t?” Draco Malfoy, for once _not_ a bigot?

“No, it’s… Obviously I don’t like you or care about you, because you’re the vanguard of the Light and I think that’s quite stupid, but you’re capable of holding a moderately intelligent conversation and you’re very fun to irritate.”

“Thanks?”  
Malfoy laughed again.

“I’m not your friend, Harry. But I do know enough about you to know that what’s in your pants is way down on the list of things I should make fun of you for.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“You’re sure you won’t tell? I’m not lying Malfoy, I will kill y—”

Malfoy lightly shoved him, knocking him into the stone wall. “A Malfoy’s word is good and true. Unless it’s inconvenient, in which case all bets are off.” Harry glared; Malfoy grinned. “Stop getting your wand in a knot. I won’t tell anyone. _I promise._ ”

The stars were rather bright that night, and Harry stayed up on the astronomy tower long past curfew to watch them, sitting on the edge with Malfoy and talking about Quidditch and chess and how Harry was planning on killing Sirius Black. They very carefully did _not_ talk about Voldemort or Malfoy’s father or any of the things that made them both want to punch each other and set things on fire. 

He went to bed still thoroughly exhausted but with his mind calm for the first time in ages, tracing alpha draconis and canis lupus behind his eyelids as he fell asleep.

That didn’t stop him from dreaming though.

↠

The forest was on fire again.

Harry looked up and watched the flames spit into the air. Limbs were crashing down. Birds were taking flight, shrieking. Spiders were skittering as fast as they could through the brush. Harry didn’t know where they were going—on all sides, there was only fire and more fire.

“ _Isn’t it beautiful, Harry?_ ”

The cold voice rang through his head, and Harry turned to look. Voldemort stood next to him, looking proudly at his work.

“ _It’s time to rebuild, sweet boy._ ”

Voldemort’s gleaming red eyes looked into Harry’s. Harry screamed.

When he woke up, his scar was bleeding. Snape was going to be so angry.

↠

Harry watched from the courtyard as students began to filter back into the castle. They were all bright-eyed and cheery, running to find their friends and yelling back and forth across the yard to each other.

Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna had apparently taken the train together, because they were already in a large clump when Harry saw them. They greeted him jubilantly and immediately began swapping Christmas stories. Harry saved most of his for when things were a bit more private and focused on how many sweets he’d eaten and how funny it had been to watch Professor Snape drink hot cocoa with marshmallows.

As they were walking through the halls, someone caught Harry’s shoulder sharply and he stumbled.

“Move it, Potter,” said an all-too-familiar voice in an all-too-familiar sneer. “Maybe one of these days you’ll learn how to walk properly—honestly, those Muggles of yours really taught you nothing.”

Harry just stared. Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering behind Malfoy, though once again his insult had been mediocre at best. He was much better at them when he was on his own, Harry thought.

“Granger, I see no one thought to give you a hairbrush for Christmas. What a shame. And Weasel—well, I’m sure no one in your family could afford to give you much, so I won’t blame them too badly for letting you look like…” he gestured towards all of Ron, “ _that._ ”

Hermione, whose natural hair was quite beautiful in Harry’s opinion, tried desperately to hold Ron back before he punched Malfoy—or tried to slug-hex him again.

“Let me at him,” Ron yelled, waving his arms wildly. “I’ll get you, you stupid git!”

Malfoy smirked and walked smoothly away, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels, still sniggering.

“Aren’t you angry, Harry? Let’s hex him, I think I can still get him through the crowd.” Ron looked maniacal, still straining against Hermione, who was much stronger than she looked.

Malfoy really was a lot more fun on his own; he had rather liked it when he called him ‘Harry.’

↠

Professor McGonagall pulled Harry aside after the first Transfiguration class and told him in very clear terms that if he didn’t start doing his homework again she would put him in detention every day for the rest of the year. So he started doing his homework again, much to Ron’s relief. His grades had been failing along with Harry’s the last term—he’d finally have someone to work with again.

↠

Oliver Wood pulled Harry aside as soon as he saw him and eagerly asked if Harry had ordered a broomstick yet. Harry said no; truthfully, he hadn’t really thought about it all break.

“What about those dementors? If you’re still, er, having trouble with them, that might make it, you know…” He broke off awkwardly.

“Challenging,” Harry added wryly.

“Yup,” Wood said. “Definitely don’t want you falling off your broom again, do I? Can you get those sorted?”

Could he? Harry wasn’t sure. He vaguely remembered Lupin fighting them off on the train but had no idea what the spell was or if he was even strong enough to learn it.

“I’ll try.”

↠

Over a rather grotesque detention wherein he sliced and sorted animal spleens—he’d _accidentally_ hexed Malfoy after he spiked Harry’s potion and made it explode—Harry asked Snape if there was a spell to fight dementors.

Snape didn’t look up from the papers he was grading.

“Not one you could master.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“But like, what is it? Sir?”

Snape told him to shut up and do his work or else he’d stay another hour. 

After a few more minutes:

“If you tell me, I’ll tell you about my last Voldemort dream.”

Snape stared at him.

“I liked you better when you were scared of me,” he finally growled, and left the room.

“This,” Snape said, slamming down a hefty book on Harry’s workstation once he returned, “has a section on the Patronus charm. It requires a high-level mastery of one’s emotional and magical cores—as well as a wealth of happy memories.” He sneered the last two words, curling his lip to show just how much he disdained the idea of happiness doing anything worthwhile for the world.

“Oh.” Harry’s heart sank. He didn’t have any of those things.

“Now: your end of the bargain, Potter.”

Harry set down the knife he’d been using to split spleens—his father’s knife, Black’s knife—and told Snape what he remembered about Voldemort and the forest and the fire.

“It could just be a nightmare, Professor,” he said hopefully. “I do have lots of those.”

“Based on your ability to do essentially anything you shouldn’t be able to, I imagine it is yet another warning of the future.”

“Does that mean I could do the Patronus? If I’m that talented?”

Snape glared, told him that he had another bucket of organs in storage if Harry wanted the extra work. Harry said no, thank you very much, and ran away as quick as he could, the book clasped between his hands.


	17. Chapter 17

Hermione stopped going to divination shortly after the spring term began.

“It’s just absolute rubbish,” she had said after a class wherein Trelawney told Harry his life line was the shortest she’d ever seen. “There’s no way anyone or anything could ever predict the future. Muggles are right about that one.”

Harry, who had recently been seeing the future quite frequently in his dreams, wisely kept his mouth shut and made the trek up to the smoky-warm classroom with Ron by his side. He didn’t put much stock into Professor Trelawney’s frequent predictions of his death, but he also wanted to keep track of them in case any of them matched one of his dreams. He started keeping a little journal of notes from her classes and his dreams so he could find comparisons between them. He definitely was _not_ worried or concerned or paranoid, not even a bit.

Professor Lupin kept disappearing once a month. He also kept ignoring Harry, who was trying not to hold it against him because it probably wasn’t his fault—he just didn’t know he needed to pay attention. Harry also tried very hard not to remember Sirius Black kissing him.

Professor Snape gave him detentions whenever he fought with Malfoy, which was even more frequently than before break. Whatever had prompted Malfoy to become a vaguely reasonable human being for those few weeks of winter had promptly vanished, and he was right back to his usual irritable, viciously rude self. The detentions weren’t too bad though; Harry figured it was mainly a way for Snape to keep an eye on him.

One thing had changed for the better. In early February, Hagrid sent Harry, Ron, and Hermione a letter: the case against Buckbeak had been dropped. Apparently, Lucius Malfoy hadn’t been responding to any correspondence nor had he attended any of the pre-requisite meetings; without his follow-through, the ministry saw no reason to pursue punishment of the hippogriff.

Ron and Hermione whooped and hollered and they all went down after classes to celebrate with Hagrid, who had been crying out of happiness all day long and whose beard was rather soggy. Harry was thrilled to hear that Buckbeak would not die, but he was more concerned to learn that Malfoy’s father was still nowhere to be found. He wondered if Malfoy had heard from him. He wondered if Malfoy was okay. He wondered if Malfoy’s father was with Voldemort right now. He wondered if he should stop caring about Malfoy altogether because he was definitely the son of a death eater and probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill Harry or otherwise maim him if his father asked.

He did not wonder any of that aloud.

↠

Harry couldn’t summon a Patronus. Every time he tried, he could only hear Voldemort’s laugh.

Oliver Wood took him off the Quidditch team.

“I’m sorry, Potter. More than you know—you were our best shot at winning the Cup,” he said to Harry in the common room one evening. “But McGonagall says you’re not allowed to plummet to your death again this year; I tried arguing, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Harry wasn’t terribly upset, because his brain felt like fog and he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to sit on a broom for more than a minute without falling off, though he did feel a current of guilt and shame course through him each time a member of the team came to talk to him.

“Cheer up, Harry,” Fred—or George—said when they found out.

“Fay Dunbar is going to fill in, and she’s _far_ prettier than you are!” said whichever hadn’t spoken before. Then they slapped his back and ruffled his hair and stole his sweater—they gave it back after a few minutes, probably because it wasn’t very fun to run around if no one was chasing you.

Hermione wasn’t very good at commiserating.

“Now you’ll have extra time to catch up on your Transfiguration work,” she said brightly. Harry dropped his head to the stack of books he had in front of them and gave them a few solid knocks with his forehead. She patted his back softly and went back to fixing his charms essay, which was woefully misinformed.

↠

Ravenclaw beat Gryffindor, and they were officially out of the running for the House Cup. Wood told Harry in a very dull voice that he didn’t blame him in the slightest—but of course, Harry knew that he did. He wished things could have gone differently, he wished he was stronger, he wished he had happier memories to fight dementors with, he wished… lots of things, really.

Luna was pleased that Ravenclaw had won, though she hadn’t known until Harry had told her—she’d been in the forest and lost track of time. He found her with the hippogriffs, watching as a young one learned to fly. Its wings were massive compared to its small body, and it kept falling over before it could properly take off.

“I’ve missed you, Harry,” Luna said.

He hadn’t realized he’d been gone and told her so.

“I think you might just be a little confused right now. Your brain is very busy.”

“With Wrackspurts?” he asked.

“No,” she said sadly. “Other things.”

↠

Harry dreamed of the forest again. He was walking with Voldemort, their feet bare on the crackling leaves.

“ _A gift,_ ” Voldemort said, his voice slippery and sly. “ _For all your good work._ ”

In his white, bony hands was a very familiar knife.

In Divination, Professor Trelawney said he was going to be stabbed in the back.

“By your own knife, dear boy! Do not hand a weapon to anyone, no matter what; guard your soul closely!”

Harry excused himself to throw up in the toilet.

After some sweating and panting and washing of clammy hands, he still did not feel any better, so he went to the Hospital Wing, trusting Ron to bring his books back to the common room.

“Hi, Madame Pomfrey,” he said, half-leaning against the door as he pushed it open.

She caught him as he fell and whisked him into bed—his favorite one, the one on the far corner by her office, which was the most private and had the best view of the lake when the blinds were open.

“Magical exhaustion,” she tutted, and shoved some potions down his throat. He took them all gratefully, desperate for a relief from… whatever it was he was feeling. A nagging voice told him that random potions were not going to fix anything in the long run, but he drowned it with calming draught.

↠

Ron and Hermione came to visit after dinner. Madame Pomfrey had ordered Harry to spend the night so that she could monitor him; he had tried to nap earlier after she’d given him some Dreamless Sleep, but had instead woken screaming from what was, now definitively proven, _not_ just a dream about Voldemort’s snake coiling around his legs and talking to him.

Ron roughly dumped all of Harry’s books on the nightstand and then sat on Harry’s legs.

“What’s on with you, mate? Just leaving like that? I was worried sick.”

Harry winced, not just from the pain of Ron shifting on his shins to get more comfortable.

Hermione, who’d been kind enough to pull over a chair rather than sit on him, reached over and felt his forehead.

“Harry, you’re burning up!”

Was he? Now that he thought about it, he did feel rather damp. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his skin felt like there was a fire bubbling up beneath it.

“Madame Pomfrey’s fixing me up,” he said dully, trying a smile. It felt wobbly, his cheeks tight and aching.

“Harry, stop it.” Hermione was angry now. He could always tell because her hair coiled a little tighter like little snakes—or maybe his mind just liked to show him snakes in places where they shouldn’t be. She was talking more, something probably important. Most things Hermione said were important and he knew he should listen, but it was just so hard. The snakes were writhing and screaming; he wanted desperately to help all of them. They couldn’t help it that they were snakes. He raised a hand to her hair and tried to pet them, but one bit his finger and recoiled.

“That hurt,” he said slowly.

“I don’t care if it hurts—you’ve been hurting us all year. Listen to me, Harry Potter, or I’ll walk out of here and never talk to you again. You have been _wrong_ for months and you won’t talk to us about it. Somedays you won’t even look at us! It’s like we don’t exist to you. I know you’re struggling with something but if you don’t tell us then we can’t help! What’s happening to you?”

Hermione was talking about something he couldn’t understand. He looked from her to his finger. It was not bleeding. Her hair was not snakes. His brain was a fog and he couldn’t see past it to understand what she was saying.

“I think,” he said very slowly and seriously, “that Madame Pomfrey is poisoning me.”

Ron and Hermione did not think that he was being serious.

“Mate, I like you and all, but I’ll beat your head in if you don’t talk to us.”

Harry didn’t understand why everything was so hard right now. He kept hearing something in his head that was not his voice and it made it hard to think about whatever very important thing Hermione was talking about.

“I’m sorry,” he said listlessly. “It’s very hard to pay attention.”

Ron tried to punch him, but Hermione caught his arm.

“I don’t need you to defend me, Ron,” she said, her eyes burning flames. “Harry, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but until you figure your shit out you can count me out on dealing with your issues. Fix your own fucking charms essay.” She stood, her chair grating against the ground as she pushed it back.

“You sound like… Draco,” Harry said. It was so funny how all his friends would get along if they just tried. A spark of interest flared in his mind when he thought of Draco—how was his slithering friend?

“Draco?” Ron exclaimed, leaping from Harry’s legs and off the bed. “Are you on a first-name basis with Slytherin bastards these days?”

“I’ve always known his name, Ron. Haven’t you?”

Both of his friends looked furious. He wished he knew why.

“Bye, Harry,” Ron said angrily. “Let us know when you’ve got your head back on straight.”

Harry watched his friends leave the hospital wing and thought happily that this was the first time in a while they’d truly gotten along; maybe now they could move past all that Scabbers and Crookshanks nonsense. A calm, slippery voice in his head told him to fall asleep, and he did.

↠

When he woke, Snape and Dumbledore were by his bed and the moon was glittering on the lake.

“Am I in trouble?” he asked.

“No, my boy,” Dumbledore said, his eyes not quite meeting Harry’s. Interesting—normally it was the other way around. “What would you be in trouble for?”

Harry’s mouth was dry and tasted like chalk. He licked his lips.

“I think I killed someone,” he whispered to Snape. “And you weren’t very happy about it.”

Snape’s pale face was like stone in the moonlight. As bright as the moon itself.

“Who did you kill, Potter?”

“You should really… try tanning sometime… Severus.”

The stone cracked through the middle and stayed broken. Harry smiled; he was pleased to see it break.

“Perhaps we should stick with last names, dear boy,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Can you tell us who you are right now?”

“… No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Enough,” Snape snapped, and bored his eyes into Harry’s. Harry looked at him calmly and felt his professor’s mind begin to burn as he tried to slide into his mind.

“That’s not very nice of you.”

Snape recoiled, eyes blinking rapidly.

“Perhaps it would do you well to have another calming draught, _sweet child_ ,” Dumbledore said, conjuring a vial of potion and stretching his hand out to meet Harry’s.

He flinched and shook his head, trying to clear the fog. Something about what Dumbledore had said was ringing in his head, but he couldn’t identify it. All he knew was that some part of Harry was very, very scared. Another part of him was very, very angry. It was hard to tell which part won.

“I don’t need it,” he hissed, and hit the vial out of the headmaster’s hand.

“I do think you would feel better,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Severus, might you have anything stronger?”

“Certainly, headmaster,” Snape said, his voice level and cool.

“I won’t,” Harry yelled. Or someone else yelled. Or he was thinking of yelling but had not done it yet. He looked desperately to the headmaster, whose eyes met his for just a moment. A surge of rage burst forth from somewhere within him, and he began to shake furiously. He wanted to kill Dumbledore, the meddlesome fool who had been manipulating and controlling his life since he was a baby.

“You will, Potter,” Snape growled, and before Harry could stop him the man had pinned his arms to his chest and was forcing a vile-tasting potion down his throat. He spluttered and choked but it did no good.

“Stop it!” he wailed. “Stop it now! Make it stop!” The thick potion felt like ice down his throat and he could feel it trickling through his chest. He coughed, and coughed, and coughed some more. His throat was stiff, his head rigid. He tried to move his arms and push the potions master away but could not.

“You’re killing me,” he choked, but neither of his professors would meet his eyes.

“Please,” he whispered, voice ragged and sore. “Please, please stop.”

“This will make it stop, Potter,” Snape said, and tilted another potion down his throat, this one colder than the first. His insides were frozen, his whole body numb and dull. His vision was blurring, darkening. He could not see.

“I’m blind,” he tried to say. “You blinded me.” But he could not say it, because now his voice, too, was frozen. And then he couldn’t do anything for a while. Not even think.

↠

Potter was possessed or something, and everything was perfectly fucking horrible. Snape had enough on his plate without the fucking Dark Lord watching his every move and using a hormonal thirteen-year-old brat to do his evil bidding.

“It will wear off in a day or so,” he told Dumbledore as the boy slowly froze on the bed in front of them.

“Would a warded space help, Severus?”

“I am not sure, headmaster. What are you suggesting?”

“Hogwarts no longer seems like a viable option for his safety. Or vice versa, I suppose; he may be dangerously unhealthy for Hogwarts at this point.”

“Your point being…”

“Perhaps young Harry should return to his aunt and uncle for a while, until we can establish how best to help him.”

Snape sucked in a short breath.  
“Are you sure that is wise, headmaster? The boy’s family is not… not what a family should be. Even for a brat like him.”

“Number Four, Privet Drive may be the safest place for him at the moment.”

“I cannot stop you, headmaster,” Snape said, hoping quite strongly that he could, “but I would warn against it. If the Dark Lord truly is using him as a vessel, three abusive, wizard-hating Muggles may serve only to enrage him, thereby strengthening his will. More harm may come to the boy there than anywhere else.”

Dumbledore twisted his hands together and shook his head solemnly as he leaned down to stare at the immobile body, but Snape caught a feverish glint in the headmaster’s eyes.

“What else would you have me do, Severus?”

“Lock him in a room with no windows and no information. Keep him drugged and from full consciousness so that He cannot access him. Ward his mind from the inside out. Blind him.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “You see my dilemma. I know your concerns about the family, Severus, but they have been entrusted with Harry’s health and safety for thirteen years and I have yet to hear a complaint. Harry will be just fine, secluded away both from Voldemort and from Sirius Black.”

Snape did not necessarily agree, but he had no better ideas that would involve minimal work on his part, so he said nothing. The boy had a few days before he would be able to move again—maybe by then the issue would be null. He knew what to think about wishful thinking though, and firmly blocked that line of thought from returning.

“Well, I don’t suppose there’s much left to see here,” Dumbledore said. He patted Potter on the head, said a good night to them both, and then walked back to Pomfrey’s office for the Floo. Snape lingered for a moment, studying the boy’s frozen form. The potions, which effectively instilled a body-bind hex and trapped the senses, also had a side-effect of removing any charms applied by the patient. Potter’s masking charms and glamours had all been cancelled and he looked far weaker and sicker than he had all term—he must have modified them to cover his depleting energy as well.

The boy _had_ kept him updated with his dreams, Snape thought grudgingly, but he’d hidden so much else that the true root of his dreams had gone unaddressed. Yes, there had always been the chance of possession, and both Snape and Dumbledore knew to keep an eye out for it, but tonight… tonight had been more than Snape had ever expected. For the Dark Lord, his master, to reach out through the boy and speak to _him…_ he shuddered. He should have noticed sooner.

Though he’d been instructed not to, Snape knew what he had to do. Turning towards the door of the hospital, he glanced back at the prone body once more. Nothing had changed, of course. Still, he couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling of being watched by something inside the boy, even if his eyes were glued shut.

In his office, with lamps shining bright and a warming charm applied, Snape began to write a letter to Lucius Malfoy. Last he’d heard, the man was in Albania. Hopefully, he hadn’t found what he’d been looking for. 

↠

At breakfast next morning, Luna couldn’t find Harry. Worried, she walked up to the Gryffindor table and found Ron and Hermione sitting together. She didn’t know them as well as Harry, but they were his friends and he trusted them, so she did too.

“Hello, Ron. Hermione. Have you seen Harry today?”

Neither Gryffindor looked very happy to see her.

“We wouldn’t know,” Hermione said coldly.

“We’re not his watchdogs,” Ron said.

“No; you’re his friends,” Luna said. They were quite rude sometimes, she noticed. Even now, they were exchanging an ugly look right in front of her, as if she couldn’t already tell she wasn’t wanted. “Are you sure you haven’t seen him?”

“He didn’t come back yesterday,” Ron muttered.

“Back?”

“From the hospital wing,” Hermione said. Her gaze was even as she stared at Luna, her eyes challenging. “He’s sick with something or another and won’t tell us. Did he tell _you_?”

“I’m his friend too,” Luna said, defensive. “He’s allowed to tell me things.” But no, he _hadn’t_ told her, and something heavy bore down on her chest. Worry, concern, fear. She’d known he was struggling with something—she should have done more to help him. The guilt wracked through her until she firmly set it aside for another time, another day.

“If he can’t even bother to tell his best friends what’s wrong, then he can get better all by himself,” Hermione sniffed.

“That doesn’t make much sense,” Luna pointed out. “He needs his friends more now than ever.” Leaning over, she took a muffin from Ron’s plate, ignored his cry of protest, and walked out of the Great Hall.

She’d had to specifically ask for Harry, because he wasn’t in the main area of the wing. Madame Pomfrey gave in to her pleas and led her to a private room in the back. When she saw Harry, it was all she could do not to cry.

“Oh, Harry,” she murmured, sitting next to him and clasping his hand. Or, she tried to clasp it—his arms and hands were stuck firmly to his body in an unnatural position, as if he’d been struggling to move and then frozen.

“Is there another basilisk?” she asked Madame Pomfrey. “I thought he killed it last year.” He looked like he’d been petrified—except for his eyes, of course, which were shut and thus couldn’t have seen a great coiling snake.

Madame Pomfrey tutted. “No basilisk, Ms. Lovegood. I’m afraid I can’t explain.”

“Can I stay with him?”

“It won’t do him much good,” the matron said, “But so long as you aren’t late for class, you’re welcome to visit.”

“He needs his friends,” Luna said. Why did adults not realize this about him? He looked so lonely. Tracing his fingers with her own, Luna began to talk in a quiet, soothing tone. She told him all the things he had forgotten to ask about the last few weeks—about her classes, and the upperclassmen who had stolen her favorite shoes, and the baby thestral that liked to kick apples when she rolled them to it, and the stray dog that she’d seen a few more times pacing the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

As she talked, Luna thought wistfully of her mother, who had always loved to listen to her stories. “Tell me what happened next,” she would urge, and little Luna would delightedly carry on, even if the important bits had already been told, because her mother saw the magic in every little thing. Harry didn’t ask her things like mum had, but he was good at listening—at least, before his soul got all muddy and hard to see into. Lately, he hadn’t been a very good listener at all, but she wasn’t sure that was his fault.

“When we’d watch the mooncalves,” she told Harry, “Mum would pull me into her lap and we’d sit on the edge of the meadow. Everything would be so bright, even in the dead of night. The flowers would open up, and the grass would stand up tall. The bugs would sing as loud as they could. And then the little creatures would creep up from their burrows, slowly at first and then fast all at once. A huge family, Harry, each and every one just as important as the other.

Luna cried as she told him how they danced. Circles and circles of calves, interlinked and melding together, dancing inside and outside of themselves. Her mother would sing with the bugs and the birds as they danced. She would rock Luna back and forth with her, who would giggle and laugh with joy, and when the calves returned to their burrows she would take Luna out into the grass and dance with her, swinging her in circles and singing jubilantly.

After she died, they buried her at the edge of the meadow. Luna had watched her mother die, a scream caught in both their throats, and she had watched her body be lowered down into the ground, watched the dirt cover her. Her father spelled grass and wildflowers to grow over her grave immediately, and the roots crawled quickly through the dirt. Through it all, Luna did not cry, until the next full moon.

She ran to the meadow by herself against her father’s wishes, coming to a stop by her mother’s resting spot. The mooncalves had begun dancing without her. Collapsing to the ground, she sobbed as they danced, as the birds and bugs sang, as the flowers opened and twirled in the moonlight. The grief made her wretched, a wild and mad thing. Hair tangled and knotted and full of twigs. Her cheeks scratched by thorns. Her knees scraped and bloody. It was not fair that they could still be so happy while her life was so thoroughly destroyed. She could not move forward from there.

“But I did, Harry,” she whispered. “I survived and made it here to you. And you will survive, too; you have to.”

The words caught in her throat, but she kept talking, talking and talking until she could talk no more.

“We’re the same, Harry. And I know that you are hurting and that you are lost somewhere inside yourself. I know that someone else is there and you are fighting, fighting hard. You _have_ to win, Harry. It is so easy to give in, to let go, to be wild. But there are people waiting for you: me, Ron, Hermione, Ginny. Dumbledore, and Professor Snape. Even Madame Pomfrey. She cares for you a lot, even if she won’t tell anyone. And there’s a whole future waiting for you, one where you are happy and warm and safe. But it won’t happen unless you fight back.”

Harry did not move. He did not react. Luna knew he wasn’t dead, but she had to keep reminding herself anyway. He was just frozen, just stuck somewhere that she couldn’t see. Probably he couldn’t even hear her or process anything she was saying, but she was determined anyway. Taking a deep, rattling breath, she began to tell a new story, this one about when she and Hagrid had seen a bunny, peacefully asleep on a pile of coiled snakes in the sun.


	18. Chapter 18

Madame Pomfrey watched Harry intently over the next few days to track any changes at all. There were none, which was normal given the potions Severus had used, but still. She had hoped.

On the fourth morning, before the sun rose, Harry woke.

Calling for Albus and Severus through the Floo, Poppy rushed to Harry’s side.

His eyes were still shut but every so often he whimpered quietly. His limbs were re-awakening, giving small jolts of movement as they shook themselves awake. She’d never seen Severus use this set of potions before—only ever heard him talk of the theory and application in a distant, toneless voice—but she knew that Harry’s body would feel like it was on pins and needles for a while. Like the feeling of a leg falling asleep but spread through every part of his body and enhanced by four days of motionlessness.

Severus got there first.

“Status,” he said, bending over the boy and peeling his eyelids back.

Dutifully, Poppy reported, “No vision, no coherent noise. Small signs of shaking and nerve-ending stimulation. Heart rate climbing back up to a normal rate. It’s been less than five minutes since I first noticed any sign.”

Severus withdrew his wand and tapped it to Harry’s temple. The boy groaned, straining to turn his head away from the wandpoint.

“Good,” the potions master said. Poppy saw how intent he was, completely focused on his work; this trio of potions wasn’t exactly legally documented anywhere, though he had worked on it since first turning to Dumbledore during the war. Poppy remembered the young student Severus had been, how diligent and determined he was in potions class. It wasn’t hard to see the love he had for his craft.

Tapping various joints, Poppy affirmed that every area was responsive.

“His throat should be relaxed enough by now,” she said, casting a quick spell to confirm how long it had been since he’d woken. Every part had to be precise, every act carefully timed.

Dumbledore arrived. Severus conjured the third and final vial of his potion. Lifting the boy’s head, he pried open Harry’s jaw and tipped the liquid in. Harry did not cough or choke; he didn’t struggle at all.

“Is that normal, Severus?” Albus asked sharply.

“Not atypical, headmaster,” he said, dropping the boy carefully back onto his pillows. “When revived, most are… amenable. It is likely Potter will not remember this, either.”

Albus accioed Poppy’s teapot and conjured some cups. The pot poured its own tea, steam rising into the air, and then set itself back onto a platter which hovered by the bed, spinning slowly.

“Sugar?” he asked pleasantly.

“No, thank you, headmaster,” Poppy said. “Severus, what next?”

“We wait,” he said. “If it takes, he will need heating charms immediately. If it doesn’t, we… resort to other measures.”

Poppy had a number of guesses as to what those measures were, each guess wildly different from the last. She decided not to ask, in the hope that she wouldn’t ever need to know.

They sat in silence.

Five minutes later, right on schedule, the boy began to shake.

At Severus’ nod, the headmaster cast a number of nonverbal spells in quick succession. Poppy rushed to the boy and steadied him as he shivered so that he didn’t strain anything. His body was radiating heat from Albus’ charms and made _her_ sweat just from contact, but still he was so cold, teeth chattering.  

“I’ve got you, lad,” she murmured, “calm and steady, that’s the trick. Severus?”

“We can only wait,” he said, studying Potter intently. “He seems stable enough for the time being.”

Watching him was slow, grueling, and somewhat boring, but the three carried on in relative silence. By the time the boy’s eyes finally rolled open, the sun had risen above the forest crest in the distance.

↠

“Potter.”

Harry groaned.

“Focus. Look at me.”

Someone’s fingers were snapping in front of his face. He tried to recoil but couldn’t; someone was holding him. He closed his eyes. He was trapped—it was only to be expected with Dudley’s gang. Piers liked to hold him down, Dudley liked to hurt him.

“Harry, keep your eyes open for us.”

A different voice that time, older and more melodic. If he had to describe it… kind of tangy, like a lemonade. Smooth and sour all at once. Not a kid. A teacher, then? Someone else who didn’t mind hurting him?

He tried to open his eyes, but it felt like they were being pressed down by two massive thumbs. He tried to say “I can’t” but it nothing happened—his mouth didn’t even open. He tried, harder this time, to say “Please stop” but instead of words a deep hum resonated from his throat, dark and pained. He didn’t try to say anything else, instead caught in whimpers; his throat felt like he’d swallowed a set of knives. It was all he could do not to cry.

Someone was prying his eyelids apart. Frantically, he tried to get away from the person holding him. Unless he got away, Dudley was going to blind him; he’d joked about it more than once, and now he was making good. Harry tried to push himself away, but his body was made of bricks and he couldn’t lift his arms. Writhing in Piers’ grasp, he managed to get away from his hands, only to tip off the edge of something—a bed, probably in Dudley’s room—and slam his face into hard stone. Ouch.

After that, things went black and fuzzy for a while again.

↠

“Potter.”

Harry groaned.

“Let’s try this again. Open your eyes.”

Why was Snape yelling at him? He hadn’t even done anything… Irritably, he cracked his eyes open. His eyelids felt like sandpaper, scratching him horribly as he blinked. Eventually, the blurry colors and shapes in front of him resolved into slightly _less_ blurry colors and shapes—Snape, Dumbledore, Madame Pomfrey. The hospital wing.

“Can you speak, my boy?”

He tried and could not. This felt vaguely familiar, like he’d had a dream about it. His throat hurt. He tried to flutter a hand to say that no, he could not, but his arms weren’t responding to any of his signals. He couldn’t move a thing below his neck.

“Don’t try to move, Harry.” This was Madame Pomfrey, whose hair was messier than he’d ever seen it, her face flushed with exhaustion. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

At that, he tried harder to move, straining every muscle he could think of. Nothing happened, except he developed a sharp ache in his temple. Which of course, he couldn’t do anything about except squeeze his eyes shut, which caused all three of the people standing over him to start talking again. Fantastic.

“Do try and relax, Potter,” Snape sneered. “You are recovering from a traumatic series of events and your body is not currently functioning the way any of us would prefer it to perform. You have been immobilized until you are stronger and fully coherent. Now  _breathe_.”

Harry breathed as hard as he could; it came out weak and shaky. He tried to say “why can’t I talk” but, of course, he couldn’t talk.

Dumbledore must have seen something in his eyes—or seen past his eyes—and said, “Your vocal chords are strained from the last few days. Further, your throat is in a great deal of pain from the potions you imbibed, which rapidly froze your body and incapacitated your senses.”

Harry tried to widen his eyes in a way that said, “I don’t remember taking any fucking potions; what did the slimy git do to me,” which Snape was able to interpret clearly.

“There were _necessary._ I will not be around every time your body is inhabited by the Dark Lord, but you should count your lucky stars that I was there this time. Without me, your body could have burnt up from the force of Him within you. You could have exposed Dumbledore and Hogwarts to the most evil wizard in recent history. You could have become a weapon for his side. You could have killed someone. You could have killed yourself. Your arrogant, selfish nature caused this situation and I will not have you blaming _me_ for your own mishaps, Potter.”

It was news to Harry that he had been possessed, and he wracked his memories to try and remember what had gone so terribly wrong. His mind was in chaos. His memories seemed to be in utter disarray; he wasn’t exactly sure this was an appropriate way to describe one’s mental capacities, but it felt like Dudley’s floor, a jumble of dirty clothes and clean clothes and trash and old food and broken toys, none of it organized or making sense in any way. There were things he could remember and things he knew must have happened but couldn’t remember and things he was almost positive hadn’t happened but remembered anyway. Trying to force things into chronological order, he grasped onto a few threads of recent events.

He remembered Hagrid: his hippogriff had been saved because of… something. He couldn’t remember why, but he vividly saw Hermione and Ron cheering, Hagrid’s beaming face.

He remembered that Ravenclaw won the Quidditch tournament, but he couldn’t remember any part of the match. For some reason, he didn’t think he had competed, but he had no idea why.

He remembered hexing Malfoy. He also remembered playing chess with him. He remembered liking him and loathing him at the same time, and wondered which feeling was real, which was fake.

Bits and pieces swirled through his mind, but no image was full. It was as if something—or someone—had torn through his mind, ripped things to shreds. Some parts were glued back together, but they weren’t in their original spots and didn’t fit.

Harry thought that were Hermione listening in, she would accuse him of mixing metaphors, but. Well. That was essentially what his brain was at the moment: a huge jumbled mix of metaphors, none of which worked cohesively with the others. Maybe he really had been possessed. But why hadn’t he noticed?

“Do you need a calming draught, Harry?” Madame Pomfrey asked, sweeping him away from his thoughts. He nodded, smiling in thanks as she handed him a vial. In reality, his smile looked more like the pained grimace of a boy trying incredibly hard not to cry. She patted his head, ignored his flinch, and then bustled back to her office, murmuring something about paperwork and being busy.

The potion washed his panic away. He was not overjoyed to have been possessed by the man who had killed his parents, but he did understand that he was not _currently_ possessed and that, thankfully, he’d had several people there to help him—even if it hurt like hell and made no sense.

Dumbledore and Snape had been conferring quietly about something, whispering angrily at each other. As Harry turned his attention back to them, though, they quieted and resumed their usual professional stances. Harry would have laughed if it wasn’t so seriously depressing.

“In a few hours, we will lift the spells binding you, Harry. You will feel a great more significant amount of pain, but I know you have dealt with far worse,” Dumbledore said—as if terrible pain made general pain any better.

“Once the last of the potion has been processed through your system, we can progress to using pain-relieving potions and work on rehabilitating your vocal cords,” Snape said stiffly, each word a very polite and professional dagger. “For now, the ingredients may interact dangerously with each other. Calming draught has been deemed safe, but the others have tentatively toxic reactions.”

Harry nodded to show he understood, then did his best to express the question, “what next?” He couldn’t be sure if either man actually processed what he was asking, but he got his answer eventually.

“The potential for Lord Voldemort to return is quite high, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his eyes dark and unreadable. “We cannot be sure how he is gaining power, but we know now that he is, and that you pose a danger to yourself and to others. It will be a good day or so until you are fully well again, so for now, focus on your health. Afterwards, we can discuss what is coming next, and how best to prepare you.”

The knife stabbing into Harry’s temple was twisting now, a harsh screech against his skull, and he tried to scream but could not, instead just re-angering the tissue inside his throat. The pain was red and hot and furious, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible, his only defensive measure at hand.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Dumbledore said sadly. “There is nothing we can do but stand with you as you bear the pain and hope fervently that it will end soon.”

It was a nice sentiment, Harry thought, but he’d really rather be left alone.

↠

Luna had checked on Harry every morning since the first, when she had stayed far past the limit Madame Pomfrey had given her and missed all her morning classes. On the fourth morning, though, Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t let her in.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Lovegood,” she said, “But he’s in no mood to see visitors at the moment.”

“He’s awake?” she asked eagerly. “He’s conscious and moving and breathing and awake again?”

“Yes,” the matron said, a small smile appearing despite herself. “But he needs constant care and watch, and I’m afraid you simply may not visit.”

Luna’s heart was sinking and rising at the same time. Harry was awake. He was alive. He was coming back.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. “Please take care of him.”

Madame Pomfrey said she would do her best, and shooed Luna from the entryway.

She had time before her first class, so she went back to the Great Hall to have a proper breakfast instead of skipping as she had the last few days. On her way to the Ravenclaw table, she saw Ron and Hermione at their table. Though she wasn’t particularly fond of them at the moment, she knew that Harry cared for them and that they should know he was awake.

“Harry’s finally awake,” she told them as soon as she got to their table.

“Uh… good for him?” Hermione said. She seemed confused.

“Madame Pomfrey said he’s still in a lot of pain, I guess, and can’t see anyone right now. But maybe later today you could go and talk to him! He’s going to be alright.” She beamed. Her friend was alive and okay. She had so much to tell him.

“Er, okay, Luna. Why are you telling us?”

“What do you mean? You’re his… you’re his best friends, I thought.”

Ron laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” Luna felt lost in this conversation. Normally she was the one saying weird things to people—she was used to it by this point—so she wasn’t sure how to respond to Ron and Hermione acting like this.

“Harry Potter’s not our friend,” Hermione said. “We don’t even really know him. Where did you get the idea we were friends?”

“What do you mean? You’ve been his best friends since first year! He talks about you all the time.”

Ron and Hermione shared a weird look and laughed again.

“Nice joke, Lovegood.”

“Hey, Luna. What’s up?” Ginny was walking over, her ponytail bouncing as she walked. Luna smiled—she would understand what was happening.

“Harry’s awake!” she said happily. “We should go see him tonight, Ginny. I’m sure he’d love to see you, too!”

Ginny smiled. “Yeah, that sounds lovely. What was wrong with him?”

Ron sputtered. “What d’you mean, Gin? _You’re_ friends with Harry Potter?”

“Duh, _Ronald._ I’d be stupid not to after the last two years.”

“But how did you even meet him? He’d never talk to you, not in a million years.”

Ginny glared at her brother. “Just because he’s your friend doesn’t mean he can’t have others, Ron. Stop being so jealous.”

“ _Jealous_? I’m not jealous! He’s not any of our friends!”

None of this was making any sense to Luna—or Ginny, who was staring at her brother like he’d grown a second head.

“Don’t you… don’t you remember him?” Luna asked tentatively. Both Ron and Hermione just stared dumbly at her. “He was… he _is_ your best friend. You’ve known him since first year. You’ve gone on all sorts of adventures. Ron, he stayed at your house two summers ago after you saved him from his relatives.”

Hermione was shaking her head.

“How could we save him from his relatives? I’m sure he loves living with them—he’s _Harry Potter._ His whole life is perfect.”

Luna looked helplessly at Ginny. What was happening?

“C’mon, Luna,” Ginny said, looking angrily between the two third years. “We’d better not be late to Charms class.”

“That’s it?” Ron called as they left. “That’s the whole joke? It’s not very funny, you know!”

Luna hastily wiped away the angry tears sparking at the corners of her eyes.

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked Ginny. “Why don’t they care about Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Ginny said carefully, deep in thought. “I think something’s wrong. It sounded like they hardly remembered him at all. Like they really didn’t know anything _real_ about him.”

Like all he was to them anymore was Harry Potter: the boy who lived.

↠

“What time is it?” Harry croaked. The sun was out of sight, somewhere up in the sky where he couldn’t see. His voice was finally coming back.

“Just past noon,” Madame Pomfrey said. Snape and Dumbledore had left an hour or two earlier—it was quite boring to lay in bed like a statue, so it must have been just as boring to watch, too. “How do you feel?”

“Sore.”

“That’s to be expected,” she said. “Professor Snape will be back after afternoon classes and we can apply the proper healing and restorative potions.”

“Why… can’t you?” Harry rasped. Instead of knives, his throat now felt like it was full of cotton balls.

“The potions you took were of his creation. Professor Snape knows more than I about the aftercare involved. All in all, it will be much safer to have him here, even on just a supervisory basis.”

Something about this sounded very fishy to Harry. Why would he have willingly taken such a horrible set of potions from _Snape_? He must not have told Harry all the repercussions of it, otherwise Harry was sure he would have refused. Or… maybe the situation really was that bad, if Voldemort was actually in his head. What an awful thought.

“We can begin removing the immobilizing charms, if you feel up to it,” Pomfrey said.

“Yes,” Harry said quickly. “Yes, please do.” He was tired of not having any control over his body.

“It may hurt for a while. Like a limb that’s fallen asleep.”

“Just do it,” he said. Madame Pomfrey tutted at his rudeness, but he didn’t really care.

Waving her wand, she began a long stream of Latin, none of which Harry understood. Slowly, he felt his body wake up, a tingling starting in his fingers and toes that then stretched through the rest of his legs and torso. He sucked in a sharp breath as the pain started—Pomfrey had been right; it felt exactly like pins and needles, except _everywhere_ and amplified about ten times. He tried to wiggle his arms and legs slowly, to shake out the nerves. It kind of worked, but his limbs still felt weird and itchy, as if they weren’t quite his.

“Have any of my friends come by?”

“Ms. Lovegood has dropped by every morning to visit.”

Harry smiled. Good old Luna.

“What about… did Ron and Hermione?”

A flash of concern appeared on Madame Pomfrey’s face, but she covered it with her usual stern look.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Potter. They were here the first day, when you came in after Divination. Do you recall that?”

Harry shook his head. None of his memories were where they were supposed to be; he thought he remembered something about Divination, but not what had happened or why he had even left to go to the hospital wing.

“I believe you may have had a fight of some sort. I was in my office, but your friends did not seem happy, and left soon after arriving.”

Harry didn't know what to say, his throat now tight and sore for a different reason.

“I am sorry, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey said, eyes deep with sympathy. “I’m sure they will be around once they hear you’ve woken up.”

Harry mumbled an assent and focused on stretching his hands. His joints popped as he stretched his fingers but after a few seconds they felt more or less normal.

Madame Pomfrey waved her wand and a tray laden with food appeared, floating over to rest on Harry’s knees.

“When you feel well enough, try to eat something. You haven’t had anything for four days, after all.” She bustled away, giving him space to think and readjust to the living world. It was nice of her, but as soon as she left he just felt more miserable and alone than before.

What had he done to make Ron and Hermione so mad at him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, we're taking a turn here and I know you might not all be happy with it... either way, let me know your thoughts! I'm about five chapters ahead right now and getting close to the end of third year; I have it loosely sketched through fourth year and a general idea of what will happen, but I'm exploring as I go and having a fun time :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm like one chapter away from being done with the third year--we'll be pretty set up for the rest of the series i think!

Ginny and Luna came to visit the next morning. They talked about small things, like the weather and Quidditch and the new hippogriff foals. The two girls were bubbly and upbeat—it seemed a little forced, but Harry appreciated their effort. He knew he wasn’t the happiest person to be around right now. He yearned to go outside; it felt like years since he’d been on the grounds. The sun leered at him from the windows, teasing him with its inviting warmth. Flowers were beginning to bud, and the lake was shining brightly.

As they started to leave for class, Harry got the nerve to ask them the question he’d been worrying about all night.

“Why haven’t Ron and Hermione come to see me?”

Luna’s face fell. “Oh, Harry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’d hoped you hadn’t noticed, but of course you would.”

Ginny looked angry. “They’re stupid, the both of them,” she said. “They’re pretending they don’t remember you.”

“Pretending? Like… ignoring me?” That hurt more than Harry wanted to admit. “I don’t even know what I did,” he murmured.

“You didn’t do anything,” Ginny said fiercely. “What I said came out wrong. They’re—I don’t think it’s intentional, Harry. Something about them is weird. It’s like… it’s like they don’t know who you are.”

“How could that happen?” Harry asked. “How’d they just forget?” A stone sank to the bottom of his gut. Just like everyone had forgotten who he was before, was everyone he loved going to forget about him _now,_ too?

“We don’t know, Harry,” Luna said, patting his hand.

“Can I… Can you ask them to come see me?” he gulped. “Even if they don’t remember, I… I miss them.”

“Of course, Harry. Maybe that will help.” She hugged him tightly, waved, and walked away, hand in hand with Ginny.

The thought of his two best friends coming to visit kept him anxious all day long. Under Madame Pomfrey’s supervision, he tried to walk around the wing; taking it slow, he could make it all the way around without stopping, but it hurt like hell. She assured him he was doing well and that it would take a few more days to have his strength back, and then she shoved some strengthening potions down his throat and made him eat a full tray of food.

That afternoon, he flipped listlessly through his textbooks. If he actually knew what his homework was, he might have even worked on it—he was _that_ bored. But Luna and Ginny weren’t in his year and couldn’t tell him the schedules; hopefully Ron and Hermione would at least tell him that much. Harry shoved thoughts of his friends rapidly away, trying not to think too hard about why they weren’t talking to him. Why they’d forgotten him.

Among his textbooks, he found the journal he’d been keeping. He remembered most of it—records of his dreams, Trelawney’s observations, general events that had happened over the last few months. But most of the more recent entries were foreign to him. Apparently, he’d been trying to learn the Patronus charm—by its description, it sounded like what Lupin had done on the train. He grimaced at the short list of ‘happiest memories’ he’d drafted—reading his name on his Hogwarts letter, looking at photos of his parents for the first time, greeting Hermione after she recovered from being petrified, mastering the charms that helped disguise his body… there wasn’t much else listed, just some smaller scrawled ideas. He hadn’t learned the charm yet, and he doubted he would anytime soon, especially if Voldemort kept talking to him.

After dinner—Harry had only picked at his food, anxiously waiting—Ron and Hermione finally showed up. They walked hesitantly over to his bed.

“Hey, Potter,” Ron said in a faux casual voice.

“Hi, Ron. Hermione.” Harry’s voice came out smaller than he wanted, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I, uh, I missed you guys. How are you?”

“We’re fine,” Hermione said. “But a bit confused. Luna and Ginny… they seem to think that we know you. More than classmates, that is. And we don’t… well, we’ve never had a real conversation with you. Never.”

“Never?” Harry’s voice croaked as he spoke. They really couldn’t remember.

“Nah, mate.” Ron shook his head. “We don’t really know you at all. So, uh, I mean, we can hang out if you want—it’s rough being sick on your own—but you probably have, er, your own friends to hang out with. Or something.”

“I don’t,” he said thickly. “I mean, you are my friends. Both of you. Even if you don’t remember.”

Hermione’s eyes were full of pity, and he winced. She thought he was crazy.

“Listen,” he said. “Let me tell you about some of the things we do, about how we hang out. Maybe then you’ll remember. Please?”

They nodded, and he began, stuttering at first but gaining confidence as he went. He told them about fighting the troll, and finding the sorcerer’s stone, and brewing Polyjuice potion. He told them about spending the summer in Diagon Alley. He told them about the cold winter nights when they’d pile blankets and pillows by the fire and play Exploding Snap together. He told them about the sweaters Mrs. Weasley knit for him and Hermione (and Ron, obviously).

They didn’t remember.

“I mean, we know _you_ saved the sorcerer’s stone, and fought that troll, and stuff. You do lots of cool stuff, mate; everyone knows that. But we weren’t there.” Ron shrugged embarrassedly.

“Yes, you were! I couldn’t have done any of that without you guys. I’m not special, I’m not… Ron, you were the one who knocked the troll out. Hermione, you brewed the Polyjuice! I couldn’t… I mean, I’d probably be dead without you.”

They had matching looks of disbelief on their faces, and Harry started to panic.

“Wait,” he said. “What if I told you something… something only friends would tell each other? Would that make you believe me?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Hermione said. “Even if you tell us something, if we don’t remember it then it won’t matter.”

“But,” Harry said, desperate, “What if it’s a secret? Like, a really big secret. Something I didn’t tell you before but should have. Maybe… I dunno maybe it’s because I wasn’t—because I didn’t tell you that you forgot about me. Maybe it’s my fault.”

He knew it didn’t make sense, but he didn’t know what else to do. Maybe this was karma—he’d lied to them, and he’d forgotten him. He could fix it. They had to remember him. They had to.

“I didn’t tell you before because I was scared. Terrified, really. But we were friends. Best friends. You would have supported me, I know it, even if you didn’t understand.”

“What are you on about?” Ron asked.

“I’m—That is, I… I’m not Harry Potter.”

“Huh?” Ron and Hermione exchanged quizzical glances.

“I mean, I am. But I wasn’t—I wasn’t always. Not really.”

“What d’you mean? First you say you’re our friend, then you say you’re not even Harry Potter at all?”

“No. It’s. Argh. I’m getting all mixed up.” Harry took a deep breath. “I was born a girl, I guess. I mean not really, because I’m a boy, but everyone thought I was a girl. And I realized I wasn’t. And somehow—not even Dumbledore knows how, or at least he isn’t telling me—when I got my letter to Hogwarts, it knew my name. My _real_ name. And everyone here just knew I was a boy, and they went with it. No one remembers who I was before. I thought it was just a regular thing that happened with magic, but it’s not. And I never told you because I was so scared. But now there are worse things to be afraid of, because I can’t be happy if you don’t… if you don’t remember me.”

Hermione was the first to speak, her words slow and thought out. “So, you’re saying you’re trans, right? I’ve read about people like that.”

Harry had flashbacks to the summer when he’d imagined writing her a letter. Yup, he’d known even then what she would have said. He nodded.

“And somehow, people don’t know that you were ever anything other than who you are now.”

He nodded again.

“Hang on,” Ron interjected. “So, your real name isn’t Harry?”

“It is,” Harry said. God, why was it so hard? “Harry _is_ my real name. But it’s not my _first_ name. I had one before, but it was wrong.”

“Right, okay,” Ron said, looking like he still didn’t fully understand. “But so, originally you weren’t the boy who lived? You were the girl who lived?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“And people just forgot?” Ron said loudly. “You can’t just forget something like that. If Ginny had been a girl and then turned into a boy, mum would have freaked. Everyone would have noticed.”

Harry had been gripping the bedsheet tightly with his hands; catching himself, he slowly released the tension and tried to calm down. It wasn't Ron's fault he was hurting Harry's feelings—he was only trying to understand. He hadn't lived with this his whole life. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said. “But it happened, and I can’t change it.”

“But we were your _best friends,_ Harry—or at least, you think we were,” Hermione said. “Surely we would have noticed something.”

“Yeah, Harry Potter— _girl wizard,_ ” Ron said. “Everyone in the whole world would notice. You’re bloody famous.”

“I know,” Harry said, grimacing. “I didn’t ask to be.”

“That’s your problem, isn’t it: you just expect people to know who you are and what you want—the world’s not like that, Potter. You want us to be your friends? You have to earn it.”

“Ron!” Hermione looked scandalized, caught between wanting to understand Harry and support Ron.

“What?” Ron’s cheeks were red, but he kept talking, loud enough to echo off the high ceiling. “If he—if _she_ wants friends, then sh—he—has to actually work for them. You can’t just do whatever you want, Potter. You can’t just lie to everyone about anything you please.”

“I know,” Harry said, voice breaking. He could feel the tears about to start; his throat ached. “I know I can’t, Ron. Please, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have lied—”

“Nah, mate. I don’t think so. Whatever’s going on with you, it’s none of my business.” Ron turned to go, shaking his head with a disgusted look on his face.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Whatever.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you! I should have—everyone should know. I shouldn’t have lied to anyone. It was an accident; it just happened and then—”

Ron scoffed. “Yeah, everyone should know! They have the right to know who their _real_ hero is, don’t you think?”

“I’ll tell them, I promise, I will—”

“Save it, mate.” Ron walked to the door and turned back to Hermione. “Are you coming?”

She looked guiltily between the two of them.

“Harry, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “He doesn’t mean it, what he said. He doesn’t mean to be rude, he’s just… I’m sorry.”

“Please,” Harry said, but couldn’t say anymore.

“I’ll try to remember,” she said, voice high and anxious. “I’ll come back.”

Picking up her things, she hurried towards the door where Ron was still waiting.

The door rocked behind them as it closed. Harry pulled his knees to his chest and burst into tears.

↠

Aberforth hadn’t expected to see Severus Snape back in his pub ever again. But there he was, as sulky and irritating as ever, casting condemnatory glances toward all the other customers.

“Snape,” he said harshly. “This better be good.”

“I would not enter such a place as yours were it not important, Aberforth,” the man said just as brusquely. “It’s about Potter.”

Aberforth shook his head, heart sinking. He set down the mug he’d been cleaning (it’s not like he’d ever get the scum off anyway).

“I told ‘im not to do anything, din I? What’d ‘e do?”

Snape was looking around in disgust, clearly trying not to touch anything in the room. Eventually, he cast several cleaning spells in quick succession before sitting down stiffly on a bar stool.

“ _He_ didn’t do anything—not that I am aware of, at the least. What exactly did you speak to him about?”

“Ah,” Aberforth said. He should’ve waited for Snape to tell him what was up instead of running his mouth; he wasn’t normally stupid enough to make a mistake like that. “Not sure it’s your business. Just warned ‘im about runnin’ off an’ trying to kill folk who were more than likely to kill ‘im instead.”

“Referring to Black?” Snape asked, brow furrowed.

“Yeh, who else is tryin’ to kill him at the mo’? Wait, nevermind. I don’t need a list.”

“Why would the boy be chasing after a mass murderer?”

“Well, ‘e found out, dint ‘e? I don’t blame him, going ballistic after hearing a thing like that. He was proper upset that Black had been so close to his parents.”

Aberforth poured himself a beer; he nudged a glass towards Snape, but the man, who looked pretty distraught now that he thought about it, waved it away. Well, his loss.

“He wanted to kill him, then? Did he seem particularly enthusiastic about it? Overzealous, perhaps?”

“What sorta question is that? Blimey. Ach, I don’t rightly know. Seemed more like heat o’ the moment. Though I s’ppose… well, once ‘e calmed down, ‘e was… different, I guess.”

“In what way?” Snape asked. His eyes were narrowed intently. Aberforth took a long swig of his drink, enjoying making the man wait.

“Not sure it’s my pregogative.”

“Prerogative? Stick to smaller words; they suit you better. I’m here because of your brother—I’m sure he wouldn’t take issue with the breach in Potter’s privacy.”

Filthy bastard. Well—Aberforth couldn’t in good conscious call him _filthy,_  considering the state of his own life,but Snape was definitely a git. Running his finger on the rim of his mug, he told Snape what had been worrying him for quite some time now.

“He was scared. Real bad. Thought You-Know-Who was still inside him, sorta. Thought ‘e was a part of him.”

Snape hissed, looking furious.

“What’s up your pants, Snape?”

“Potter told you he was being possessed by the Dark Lord and you didn’t think that might be an important tidbit of news to share? Thought it was a non-issue?”

“’E’s not _possessed!_ It was like… a metaphor, I think. ‘E was just upset and thinking about all the folks he’s killed or almos’ killed, everyone ‘e thinks he’s responsible for hurting. I told him he wasn’t, cleared it right up.”

Snape was staring at him as if he was the most revolting pile of shit in the world.

“Hang on… d’you mean he really—he’s not actually—”

A dark glare and then the smallest jerk of his head.

“Fuck.”

“Apt analysis.”

“Is ‘e alright? I mean…” Aberforth wasn’t sure what to say, exactly. What did one say when a thirteen-year-old kid was being invaded by a disgusting snake face? A snake face who was _supposed_ to be dead?

Snape sighed, his hair falling forward. A flash of genuine distress over the boy, perhaps—but then it was gone.

“He’s stable, for now. We’re unsure how he can remain at Hogwarts with the threat of the Dark Lord’s infiltration.”

“Where else would he go? You don’t mean…”

Snape nodded.

“But you can’t! You saw him, Snape—they’re not the right sort of folk. They… well.”

“I am more than aware. Your brother, however, thinks it’s the only option.”

“That sounds like ‘im,” Aberforth said darkly. “An’ you think I can stop the man.”

“A visit from his dear brother may remind him the importance of half-decent relatives.”

Aberforth absentmindedly waved to a few witches as they stumbled their way to the door. The room seemed much colder than it had a few minutes before.

“May just do more harm than good,” he said.

“He doesn’t listen to me, not when he’s planning something,” Snape said, tone bitter. “I can’t corral him at this point.”

“Not when it’s for the _greater good,_ ” Aberforth spat. “Not when he’s plotting ten steps ahead o’ the rest of us. Poor Potter—he’ll never survive, will ‘e?”

He hadn’t meant it literally, but as soon as he said it, Aberforth realized the full impact of what he’d said. Under Albus’s control, Harry could very likely die; the man had never had many qualms about throwing young children into harm’s way.

“I’ll talk to ‘im,” he said, his mind made up. “That boy’s got enough trouble without goin’ back to those damn rats they call his _family._ ”

Snape nodded once more, looking satisfied if still distressed.

“Make it quick. He plans to move him soon, even though Potter’s shown no sign of possession in the last few days.”

Aberforth grimaced; that sounded like his brother—once he’d found a way to work things to his advantage, he didn’t let it go. “Will do,” he told Snape, who was rising from the bar.

Snape made it to the door before he turned back.

“Aberforth,” he said.

“Yeh?”

“I would like to… thank you. For your help. And for… saying that to the boy.” Each word sounded strained; Snape was clearly repulsed by everything he was saying. “It helps—I’ve got enough to worry about without him gallivanting off to kill murderers.”

Before Aberforth could respond, the professor had turned swiftly and slammed the door behind him.

Typical.

↠

That evening, Harry was talking with Luna and Ginny when Dumbledore entered the hospital wing. He looked more stern than usual, taller and darker somehow; Harry fought the rising anxiety in his heart.

“What is it, professor?” he asked quickly, before the man could start a weird roundabout story that made no sense but somehow managed to deliver his point after twenty minutes.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore said, “It’s good to see you talking with your friends. A shame Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley could not be here.”

Harry ignored the pang of hurt and loss he felt at their names.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“I think it would be better to hold this conversation privately.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I’d rather have my friends here.” Ginny squeezed his hand tightly.

“Very well,” the headmaster said, face betraying nothing. “Given your recent predicament, I feel it best we relocate you to your aunt and uncle’s home for the remainder of the semester; here is too dangerous.”

Harry blanched, his hands trembling. He hadn’t told Luna or Ginny the full story of why he’d been sick for so long; instead, he’d told them it was a combination of magical exhaustion—which it was, kind of—and a nasty flu. Just another lie for him to feel bad about later.

“Why would Hogwarts be dangerous for Harry, sir?” Ginny asked politely.

“No, Ginny,” Luna corrected. “How is Harry dangerous to Hogwarts?”

Dumbledore blinked in mild surprise. Harry had understood the hidden meaning in his words well enough; he was glad Luna had, too.

“My boy?” the headmaster asked, turning to Harry, clearly expecting him to take the reigns.

“Er… Maybe he’s right. I’m sorry you guys, there’s just a lot I need to think about; I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, Harry,” Luna said. Turning to Dumbledore, she said, “Hogwarts is his home. If you make them leave, everything will just get worse.”

 _Them?_ Harry thought curiously. He exchanged quick goodbyes with his friends, hugged them both, and watched as they walked hand in hand out of the hospital wing.

“Thank you, Harry. I appreciate the privacy.” Dumbledore made it sound as though the whole conversation had been _Harry’s_ idea.

“I’m not going back to the Dursleys,” he said.

“I’m afraid we may not have another choice. Regardless, you must go back this summer, either way—what difference is a few more months?”

“I’m not going back this summer, either. They kicked me out.”

“Why, Harry, I’m sure we can work past whatever pain you caused them. They love you, after all; they are your family.”

A laugh tore from Harry’s throat before he could stop it. It sounded more like a bark.

“They have _never_ loved me, headmaster, and you’ve known it from the start. They hate me! And I hate them! If I go back, someone will end up dead—whether it’s me or them, we’ll just have to see.” Harry’s head was pounding. He hadn't been at the beginning of the conversation, but now he was furious; how could Dumbledore be so _stupid_?

Dumbledore leaned it and spoke in a much lower voice, sounding urgent.

“Harry, I must ask: is Lord Voldemort within you as we speak?”

“What? No!”

“Your words, my boy. They are full of darkness. If Voldemort truly is not a part of you now, then we have much greater concerns. I fear he has left an imprint of his darkness upon you.”

Harry felt adrift. What was Dumbledore talking about?

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head sadly, “You speak so easily of murder as if it is common to you. You speak of hatred with comfort. You reject love when it is right in front of you. Can you not see what he has done to you?”

Harry went white, his heart shaking in his chest. Dumbledore was right—all he wanted to do anymore was hurt people. The Dursleys, Sirius Black, Ron and Hermione. He was just so angry. This wasn’t normal—he was dangerous. He was a threat to everyone around him. Was Voldemort truly what had made him so dark all this time? Suddenly, he felt empty of everything inside him. He was nothing, just a wisp of a person stuck inside a body. He was out of control.

“I… I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t… I didn’t know. I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m dangerous. I hurt my friends. I lied to them, over and over. Now they hate me, and I don’t even know what I did. That’s _him,_ isn’t it?”

Dumbledore’s eyes were sparkling once more. “It can be hard to see what lies within us. I know you have the potential to be good, Harry. But first, we must make sure the bad within you cannot poison anyone else.”

Harry nodded. How could he let people like Luna or Ginny be around him when he was so evil? He had let them be his friends, let them spend time with him, listen to him talk—they could very well already be poisoned because of him. He felt sick. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment the doors of the hospital wing were flung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Harry jumped, looking to the entrance; Aberforth was standing there, looking angrier than Harry thought possible.

“Albus,” Aberforth said. “I need a word.”

↠

Aberforth looked out of place in the castle—his patchy cloak and mud-stained pants didn’t match the elegant marble—and he seemed very uncomfortable; Harry wanted to know why he was there, but the two brothers had disappeared as soon as Aberforth arrived, both faces stony. In the silence, Harry withdrew into himself. Everything Dumbledore had said was true. He didn’t _want_ to go back to the Dursleys, but he knew he needed to if he wanted any of his friends to be okay.

After a few minutes of self-pity and wallowing, Snape came in.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked immediately. “Why’s Aberforth here?”

Snape conjured a chair and sat down—threw himself down, more like. He looked as exhausted as Harry felt. Slouching uncharacteristically, Snape let out a loud sigh.

“He’s here on your behalf, Potter.”

“On my… why?”

“The headmaster seems intent on relinquishing you to your relatives. Aberforth is aware of how… distasteful they are.”

Harry didn’t understand how Aberforth could know something like that—he hadn't asked many questions the night Harry'd shown up. Ashamed, he muttered that they weren’t really all that bad anyway.

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Snape hissed, but he didn’t have his usual venom. “You have been mistreated and neglected at their hands for twelve years now, and it’s well past time Dumbledore recognizes that.”

No one had ever really spoken against his aunt and uncle so directly. Harry’s heart warmed, and then chilled again.

“But I have to go back,” he whispered. “Otherwise it’s not safe. I have to, or Voldemort…”

“Do you really think your uncle’s home will keep you safe?”

“Not me,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Everyone else. I can’t hurt anyone else.”

Harry couldn’t recognize the look on Snape’s face. Something bad, probably. He was pinching the bridge of nose, eyes all scrunched up.

“You are a _child,_ Potter. It’s not your job to worry about things like that.”

“Yes—it is! I’m dangerous, Snape! I’ve ki—” Harry drew in a shaky breath, steeling himself. “I’ve _killed_ people. I have to keep myself away from everyone; otherwise I’ll hurt them so bad. I’ll make them bad, too.”

 “Potter,” Snape said, leaning forward so quickly Harry flinched back. “ _Harry_. I… that is not true. You have many flaws, boy, prime of which is your foolish, self-centered nature. Only _you_ would think you’re responsible for the faults of others, that you—a thirteen-year-old brat—can make anyone evil. You have not killed anyone who did not deserve it.”

“I—”

“For once in your miserable life, listen to me. The Dark Lord is hurting you. He is making you believe things that are _lies._ He is sowing fear inside you, and if you do not tamp it down, it will spread and bloom into resentment, discontent, rage. That is true—I do not deny the risks. But even so, even if you became the most twisted, darkest wizard the world has ever seen—you will not; you don’t possess the power needed—it would not be your fault. It would be _his,_ for first corrupting you. Can you understand?”

“I—” Harry trailed off, the words dying on his tongue. He wanted to disagree with Snape, his whole body was screaming against everything he’d just said. Of course, it would be his fault. Of course, he would be responsible. And wasn’t he already all of those things? Resentful of his friends, family, Dumbledore. Unhappy with everything around him. Furiously angry about so many things. He was _twisted_ already, even if Snape didn’t think so. But when he tried to explain it, he couldn’t. Snape would just think he was a stupid kid. He wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t possibly understand how dangerous Harry was.

“I understand,” he said, shoving everything he wanted to say away in favor of letting Snape think he'd won. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not the center of everything; I know it’s not my fault.”

Snape looked suspicious, as if he didn’t quite believe Harry’s act, but nodded anyway.

“As for Aberforth, he is talking with the headmaster at the moment, fighting against his decision to place you back with your family. Professor Dumbledore wants to move you within the next day; Aberforth is doing his best to prevent that. It would help if you argued against it, as well. Dumbledore may listen to his favorite student over his brother.” His lip twisted. “Or me, for that matter.”

“You’re… you don’t think I should go back?”

“Have you ever processed a single thing I say, boy? No, I don’t think you should. I would prefer it if you never returned there for the rest of your insufferable life. I am quite adamant on this.”

“Oh.” Harry flushed, oddly touched. Snape didn’t want him to go back. Even if he knew he had to return anyway, it was still nice to have a professor—and a barman, he thought—stand up for him.

When the two Dumbledores returned to the hospital wing, Harry and Snape were sharing biscuits and tea. It was one of Snape’s blends: a silver needle white tea. He’d told Harry about the process, how the flowers could only be picked during a specific set of days or else they wouldn’t taste the same, how he only traded with the finest tradesmen, a close-knit community of farmers in the Fujian region of China, near where his great-grandmother had lived. Harry had never heard Snape talk about anything except potions, Voldemort, and Harry, so it was a nice detour from the norm—he knew Snape was just trying to distract him from anything more serious, but he appreciated it anyway.

“I’m glad to see you two are getting along,” Dumbledore said. Aberforth trailed a bit behind him, scowling. “It’s good that you’re here, Severus. We all have much to discuss.”

“Yes, I’m sure, headmaster,” Snape said stiffly. He’d relaxed minutely around Harry, but now he was sitting as stiffly as ever, poised to fight. Harry gulped. This was going to be a difficult conversation.

Aberforth moved past his brother and came to stand by the side of Harry’s bed.

“Yer lookin’ well, kid,” he said gruffly. He hesitated and then ruffled Harry’s hair. After getting over the shock of having another person’s hand in his _hair,_ he realized it felt nice. No one had ever done that before.

“Hi, Aberforth.” He smiled up at the man, who grimaced back.

“Well,” said Dumbledore, folding his hands together, “This decision has not been easy, and I am aware it will not be received positively.”

Everyone was staring at him, but he didn’t say anything for a while longer, instead appearing deep in thought.

“Harry, both Severus and Aberforth have assured me as to the unfit nature of your aunt and uncle. Is this true?”

Harry blinked; despite what Snape had said, he’d been prepared to leave for Number 4 without much protest. He shrugged noncommittally.

“Dear boy, I am sorry you did not feel comfortable to tell me this, in all the years we’ve known each other. I’ve come to see you as a friend, Harry, and to know you have been in pain all this time saddens me greatly.”

Harry squirmed uncomfortably. “Er, it’s okay, professor,” he said. “It’s not—it’s not bad there. It’s just not good.”

Snape made a strangled noise in the back of his throat but didn’t speak.

“It warms me to hear that, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Because despite others’ objections, I still wonder if Privet Drive is not the safest place for you.”

“Safest place for _you,_ more like,” Aberforth growled.

“Thank you, brother. I do believe I’ve heard your concerns.” Dumbledore’s words were just as sweet and light as always, but the room grew colder around them, and Harry shivered.

“Harry, I have corresponded with your aunt before,” Dumbledore continued. “I can speak with her again. We can ensure that you are safe and protected there.”

“How would you protect the boy from another attack, headmaster? It’s all and well that the Dark Lord would not gain access to Hogwarts, but still he would have access to the boy’s head,” Snape said.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, tapping his finger against his bearded chin. “That is where you enter, Severus. You have already used legilimency with Harry and taught him the basics of defending his mind against an internal attack. Perhaps you could continue that tutelage into more concrete defenses and techniques?”

Harry thought about his ring of fire that he’d taken to throwing up at certain times—he doubted it could really hold back Voldemort, but if Snape could teach him something else…

“I’d like to try,” he said quietly. “I need to keep him out.”

Snape looked at him, eyes calculating. “Headmaster, occlumency cannot be taught via owl.”

“I am quite aware, Severus. I was intending for you to visit Little Whinging, perhaps one evening a week. That way, we can ensure Harry’s physical and mental safety all at once. It would not do for him to lose all connection to the wizarding world, after all.”

Harry snorted. Isolating him hadn’t been a concern for Dumbledore any of the summers before.

“It just don’t seem right to leave the boy with that family,” Aberforth grumbled, scuffing his feet on the floor. He looked like he was desperate to get out of the castle, practically vibrating with anxiety.

“With Severus there weekly, I hope that they will hesitate to repeat their past misdeeds. I also hope, Harry, that you will not be afraid to tell Professor Snape—or any other adult you feel comfortable with—if they are unfair to you. That way, we can best address their behaviors.”

Harry blinked. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “I can do that.” _Fat chance,_ he thought privately. As if he’d tell anyone how the Dursleys treated him—he didn’t need to face that mockery every day for the rest of his life.

“So, we are all in accord? Harry, if it suits you, we will leave promptly tomorrow evening. I will send a missive to Petunia informing her of your return. Professor Snape will accompany you and begin your first occlumency lesson.”

It didn’t exactly _suit_ Harry, but he just nodded and let the conversation carry on. He needed to talk to his friends. He needed to gather his things. He needed to mentally prepare himself for dealing with the Dursleys again. He needed to stop Voldemort. He needed… to sleep, probably. To rest. Though he’d done nothing but lay in the hospital wing for days, he still felt overwhelmed and exhausted.

Snape was going to bring his homework every week. He’d have to keep up with his studies—provided the Dursleys didn’t lock away all of his stuff again.

Dumbledore seemed satisfied by the conversation and swept away after bidding everyone a good evening. Snape, who had glared consistently at Harry through the last half of the conversation, said he would return after dinner the next day and then left after Dumbledore, leaving Aberforth and Harry alone in the hospital wing.

Aberforth looked down at Harry, looking sad and angry and confused all at once. Harry, who felt much the same, didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually said.

“You got nothin’ t’ be sorry for, kiddo,” Aberforth said. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but then closed it.

“Thank you for coming. It… it means a lot.”

Aberforth ran a large hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Someone’s got to speak up for you, Harry. I know you think my brother’s got the best intentions—‘e thinks it, too—but yer just a child. I don’t much like you headin’ back to that house. I remember how you looked when we first met.”

Harry thought back to that night—he really had been a mess, he realized. Bruised and bleeding and panicked, with nothing to his name except his clothes. “That was a bad night,” he said defensively. “I—that doesn’t normally happen. It’s not… awful.”

“But it’s not _good,_ either, is it?” Harry shook his head, ashamed. “Harry, you’re allowed to say that. You’re allowed to want _more_ than that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said firmly. “I’m going back and that’s that. It might not be good, but it has to happen; I can be safe there, and train, and get stronger. I’ll come back when I know how to protect myself and the people around me.”

Aberforth sighed again, annoyed. “My brother makes people into weapons, Harry. Turns you into tools. He means ‘is best, he does, but it’s not healthy for a kid like you to think that way. You need your friends, people who love you. You need a place to run around an’ get in trouble an’ grow up—not a place to turn into something dangerous.” He ruffled Harry’s hair as he had done earlier—it still felt just as nice, and Harry leaned into his hand. Aberforth chuckled. “See? You’re a kid! You don’ need t’ be thinkin’ about dark lords and dangerous stuff.”

“I _have to,_ Aberforth. I know most kids shouldn’t have to, but I do. Like it or not, I’m… connected to him or something. I don’t want to, I really don’t”—Harry was ashamed to hear his voice breaking as he said this—“but ever since he killed my parents my life has been like this. If he’s coming back, I have to be ready.”

Aberforth looked at him, gaze unreadable, and then swept him into a sudden hug. Harry, still sitting upright in his hospital bed, was taken aback by the sudden motion. The man’s arms were huge, his body strong and firm against Harry’s. Tentatively, he stretched his own arms around the man’s waist; he couldn’t wrap his arms all the way around his large frame, but he got close enough. Warm and protected, Harry felt the strain and tension in his body lessen, felt his energy soften. He couldn’t remember ever being hugged by an adult before.

“Someday,” Aberforth said, letting go of him and stepping back, “When all this is over, I’ll build a small cottage in the mountains, with goats an’ cows an’ a huge garden. I’ll move away from all this rubbish, all this mess my brother made. An’ you can visit whenever you want, Harry. Everything’ll be safe, an’ good, an’ free.”

Harry smiled sadly. “That would be amazing,” he said.


	20. Chapter 20

The Dursleys were not happy to see Harry back on their doorstep.

Harry was not happy to _be_ back on their doorstep.

On a happier note, it was _awesome_ to see Uncle Vernon completely terrified by Snape, who he thought was a vampire and refused to make eye contact with. Knowing that he would be back every Sunday evening was a good precaution, because Uncle Vernon thought that if he did anything wrong, Snape would bite him. Harry didn’t bother to correct him.

The house was just as unwelcome as ever, though Dudley’s second bedroom had been changed up a bit. The broken toys were all gone, as were the family pictures (all sans Harry, of course) that had decorated the walls. It was empty but for a dresser, an empty bookshelf, a bedside table, and the bed itself—small and lumpy as ever. Harry had all of his stuff—Snape hadn’t let the Dursleys lock any of it away this time—but hadn’t unpacked any of it yet; something about putting his textbooks on the shelf and folding his clothes into the dresser would make it too permanent.

Saying goodbye to his friends had been miserable. Luna hadn’t said very much, instead holding his hand very tightly for a good half an hour and then handing him a gurdyroot. Ginny had been angry and fussy, demanding that Harry write to her and Luna every day.

“I’ll try my best,” he’d laughed, trying to keep the mood upbeat. Secretly, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to let Hedwig out. At the very least, he could send messages through Snape once a week.

Ron and Hermione hadn’t come to say goodbye. He wasn’t even sure if they knew he was leaving.

He’d thought about asking Luna and Ginny to find Malfoy for him. Even though they hadn’t had a real conversation since winter break, he kind of sort of liked the prat, but knew that talking to the Slytherin would open up a whole bag of issues he didn’t have time to unpack.

By the time Snape had come around that evening, all of Harry’s stuff had been transported from the Gryffindor dormitories to the hospital wing. Hedwig was there too, moved from the owlery. She’d hooted happily at him once she got there and bit his finger with gusto.

Snape had shrunk all of Harry’s belongings—except Hedwig—and Harry slipped them into his pocket. Then, they’d done something called Side-Along Apparition to the park near the Dursleys and walked the rest of the way. Apparition was cool, Harry thought, but not worth the feeling of all your organs being turned inside out. He was nauseous the whole walk towards the house.

Outside the door, Snape had turned to him, looking serious.

“You are not to do any magic, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry said—he’d known this for ages.

“That includes body charms.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t thought about that. After a few days, his binding charms and other glamours started to fade unless he reapplied them.

“I am sorry. I know it will not be comfortable for you here. I hope—” Snape cut himself off, looking angry. “Once you have mastered occlumency, perhaps this will not be necessary. It is absurd of the headmaster to believe you are safer here than Hogwarts.”

Harry shrugged. Snape rang the doorbell.

“Took you long enough,” Aunt Petunia sneered at them, gesturing for them to hurry up as they stepped inside.

“Polite as ever, Petunia,” Snape said coolly.

“Right. Your lot can’t take the brat anymore, can you?” This was Uncle Vernon, who’d entered the hallway from the kitchen and looked furious. “We got your letter. Too troublesome even for your hoodlum bunch… Might as well find an asylum, mightn’t you—rather than drop the freak here with us again.”

Snape had looked at Uncle Vernon as if he was the most despicable, revolting insect he’d ever seen. Uncle Vernon had cringed, flinching at the sight of the dark, looming figure in the hallway. Harry understood why he thought Snape was a vampire—he exuded some sort of evil, ominous energy that most Muggles would likely be afraid of.

“Careful, Dursley,” Snape had said, voice hissing. “Words like that might get you into more trouble than you’re worth. I can cut your tongue off with the flick of a wand if I want to.”

Uncle Vernon had blanched. “Just stay out of my way,” he’d squeaked to Harry, and then retreated hurriedly to the kitchen, out of sight.

Snape hadn’t thought much of Harry’s bedroom, sneering at it in disdain; Harry couldn’t help but agree. There was no love there. With a wave of his wand, Snape had transformed Harry’s luggage back to its original size. In addition, he gave Harry another stack of books—why was Snape _always_ giving him books—on occlumency and mind defenses.

“Study these thoroughly,” he’d said. “I expect you to be prepared each week with new chapters read and notes taken. You’ll find a schedule in the cover of the topmost book.”

Then, he’d conjured two chairs and some tea, and they’d had their first lesson—if it could be called that. Snape asked him all sorts of weird questions: if he knew how to swim, if he’d ever seen a bonfire, if he liked rainy days, if storms scared him, if he’d ever been to the mountains. These usually led to things Harry didn’t want to talk about—how he’d almost drowned in a pond when Dudley and his friends threw him in, how he saw fires in his dreams most nights, how Uncle Vernon had locked him out of the house during a thunderstorm one night and he’d slept under the rose bushes—and he managed to skirt any uncomfortable stories but Snape definitely noticed. At the end of the ‘lesson,’ Snape had handed him a small, leather-bound journal—not unlike his dream journal he was already keeping—and told him to write in it each day.

“Like a diary?” Harry made a face, thinking of Tom Riddle’s battered diary.

“No, Potter, not like a diary—though those can be useful. Write about daily occurrences, yes—that will be helpful in establishing memories you can return to if… if things become difficult again. But also: contemplate what we have just talked about.”

Harry didn’t really understand what exactly they had just talked about and it must have shown on his face, because Snape scoffed a little and continued.

“What makes you feel safe? Do you have any memories, any symbols that you are drawn to? We need to create some mental pillars for you, things you can rely on. You already have the fire, which is good, but that seems to be linked to the Dark Lord in some form. While it appears to work fairly well, there is a chance he can skirt by it. It will be better to find a permanent way of sealing your mind from intrusions.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s why you have the books, stupid boy,” Snape said, but the insult didn’t carry any weight.

Snape was readying himself to leave, vanishing the chairs and tea. Harry wished he could have kept one of the chairs—it had been warm and comfortable and smelled like cinnamon and cloves and something else he couldn’t identify, something inextricably linked to Hogwarts. To _home._

“You will write.” It was said not as a question or a request, but as a command. “If anything happens—from within the house or elsewhere—you will notify me immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will not leave the boundaries of Number 4.”

“No, sir.”

“You will be safe.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Idiot boy.”

“Good night, professor.”

“Good night, Potter.”

↠

The Dursleys had left him alone for the rest of the night—he hadn’t left his room, not even to use the toilet, too afraid to run into them. He felt a small pang of hunger gnawing at him, but pushed it away, instead filling the first page of his journal. He wrote about the move back to the Dursleys and how he felt about it: _sucky._ He wrote about the questions Snape had asked him—he preferred fire over water, he realized, and liked the power of storms over peace and calm. He wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, or how it would help him, but he wrote it down anyway.

Setting his journal on the bookshelf next to the books on occlumency—which were all thick and ancient and looked like something Hermione might find enjoyable, but Harry never would—he changed into his biggest sweatshirt and sweatpants, courtesy of Dudley, and crawled into his bed. Curling into himself and trying to visualize his fire, stretching higher and higher into the air, Harry fell asleep, the stars hanging over Privet Drive like a blanket.

He woke up to the sound of Aunt Petunia’s knuckles rapping firmly on his door.

“Up,” she barked. “Breakfast needs made.”

Groaning, Harry rolled onto his back, body aching from a night of restless sleep. His scar itched but didn’t hurt, and he felt as much like himself as he could. No signs of Voldemort for the moment.

Rubbing his eyes, he made his way downstairs. Dudley wasn’t up yet but Uncle Vernon was already seated at the table reading the newspaper.

“About time,” he said as Harry entered. “Don’t think you’re getting away with any laziness this time around—as far as I’m concerned, you’re in need of some good punishment. If that school can’t set you straight, we’ll just have to do it.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said, trudging over to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs. Deftly cracking them against the side of the cast-iron pan, he fried six of them, listening absently to the familiar sizzle and crack of the stovetop.

“You’ll be up on time every morning to prepare breakfast—no slacking. Unlike you, Dudley still has an education to get through, so he’ll need extra sustenance for every meal. Petunia will leave you a list of chores to be done by 5 every day; then, you’re to prepare dinner and get out of our way. The less we see of you, the better.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry muttered again, sliding four of the eggs onto a plate and handing them to his uncle. The other two he plated and placed at Aunt Petunia’s seat at the table. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He hadn’t meant to sound sardonic, but Uncle Vernon’s face darkened. “It’s that attitude that we’ll be fixing, girl.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said honestly, refilling his uncle’s coffee mug.

Uncle Vernon stared at him menacingly, and then knocked the coffeepot out of Harry’s hands. It crashed to the floor, the still-boiling drink splashing onto Harry’s hands and clothes. He yelped, jumping backwards as the glass burst into shards at his feet. A small piece had nicked one of his toes, and the small cut was beginning to bleed.

“Look what you’ve done!” Uncle Vernon roared. “Look what you’ve done! Clean that mess up _now!_ ”

Cradling his red hands, Harry looked down at the mess on the tiling.

“I’ll get the broom,” he whispered, but his uncle caught him as he turned, fingers tight and unrelenting around his forearm.

“No, you won’t,” he said angrily. “You’ll pick it up with your hands. That way, you’ll learn to be careful. Your actions have consequences, brat—learn to live with them!”

Ten minutes later, after he’d delicately picked all of the shards from the ground—acquiring several new cuts as he did so, but none of them too deep—Aunt Petunia handed him a towel for the spilled coffee.

“You’ll be mopping this floor today,” she said sharply, staring down at him. “And it had better be spotless.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said numbly.

He hadn’t expected any better, not really. He’d known the Dursleys wouldn’t forgive him for the summer, or for being magical, or for being dropped on their doorstep, or for being born in general—but he’d hoped, just a teensy bit, that Dumbledore really could have stopped them.

 ↠

Uncle Vernon went to work. Dudley went to school—not before shoving Harry into a wall as he ran past him. Aunt Petunia wrote a long list of chores out for Harry and then disappeared off to her friends for tea. Harry, alone with his thoughts and newly bandaged fingers, went to work scrubbing the kitchen tiling. The repetitive movements, the strain in his wrists, the soapy suds up to his elbows—it was all familiar, and he fell back into it easily. Once it was polished to Aunt Petunia’s standards, he got to his feet and stood up. A rush of dizziness washed over him, and his vision clouded; hurriedly, he grasped the edge of the counter for balance. Leaning over, he waited for equilibrium to return, and then hesitantly opened the fridge. He wasn’t all that hungry, but he figured he needed to eat—he hadn’t since before he’d left Hogwarts the night before, and he usually got dizzy when he didn’t eat for a while. Looking around to find what the Dursleys would least miss, he settled on a half-bruised apple and some cheese that already had some spots of mold—he picked them off easily enough.

After eating, he returned to the list of chores—Aunt Petunia wanted him to trim the hedges in the backyard. It took him a while to find the trimmer, which buried under a pile of Dudley’s toys in the shed, but he found a tin of oil and got it working well enough. As he was squaring off the hedges, his vision tunneled again.

‘ _Hello, Harry,_ ’ whispered a voice in his head. ‘ _It’s good to see you again._ ’

Harry’s knees buckled.

As he fell, his grip on the trimmer weakened.

When he woke, he could still hear the motor purring. The sun was bright above him, the late March day unusually warm. Birds were singing somewhere nearby. A deep gash was in the palm of his hand; one of the blades must have caught him.

‘ _You’ll need to wrap that,_ ’ the voice said.

“Stop it,” Harry muttered, pulling himself to a seated position and switching the hedge trimmer off. How long had he been out?

‘ _Less than an hour, I believe._ ’

“I wasn’t asking you.”

‘ _Who else would you be asking?_ ’

“It’s a rhetoral question.”

‘ _Rhetorical?_ ’'

The voice was cold and amused. High-pitched. Soft and loud all at once.

Harry had heard it before, but he refused to name it. Dumbledore could say what he liked about the fear of names—Harry was properly afraid.

‘ _So, Dumbledore abandoned you, did he? Poor, sweet boy. He does that to all of his toys, Harry—don’t feel special._ ’

Harry imagined his circle of fire, rising higher and higher around his thoughts. “Get out,” he said fiercely.

‘ _As you wish,_ ’ the voice said cheerily, and did not speak again. Harry glanced down at his hand. The blood had slowed, and the cut wasn’t as deep as he’d thought; he could clean it easily enough. It wouldn’t need stitches, which was a relief—Aunt Petunia hated taking him to hospital. She’d only had to once, when he was seven and got pneumonia, and she’d made him feel as if it was his fault he’d gotten sick.

Gingerly, Harry stood and carried the hedge trimmer left-handedly to the shed. He trudged back to the house, dressed his wound, and started back on the list of chores. They’d be mad enough he hadn’t finished the hedges; the least he could do was try some of the easier tasks.

That night, after Aunt Petunia had shooed him off to bed—she hadn’t said a word about his gauze-wrapped hand, clearly ignoring it—Harry thought about what to do. Rationally, he knew he should write Snape and tell him what had happened. But it was only the first day back. He didn’t want to annoy the man, or cause worry over something that wasn’t that big of a deal. He’d been able to push Voldemort out, and he hadn’t had any truly awful thoughts about killing people or anything. So he was fine. More or less. Plus, it wasn’t as if his handwriting would be any good at the moment.

The first (thinnest) book Harry chose from Snape’s pile was called _Mastering the Magic of Mind Manipulations_ and was not very enjoyable at all. Instead of giving him helpful tools or tips it just said, over and over again, how dangerous mind magics could be and all the different ways you could die or be permanently died. You could mess up legilimency—entering someone’s mind—and get trapped in their body, going comatose. Someone else could _steal_ your consciousness. You could focus so hard on occlumency—protecting your mind—that you lost track of your surroundings and fell off a cliff or drowned in a bathtub. Someone could distort your memories and alter your perceptions. The more people that entered your mind, the more danger you were in.

“The mind magics are far more difficult and dangerous than any of the Unforgivables,” the introduction read. “To cast an Unforgivable, you must simply possess the emotion and wand control; truly, it is a difficult task, but not impossible for a decent percentage of the population. Mind magics, on the other hand, can be mastered only by a few dozen wizards—those who possess ample amounts of diligence, self-control, empathy, imagination, and more. Not only that, but mind magics are a study, an ongoing education in the control of one’s own consciousness—a student of this book will never cease their tutelage, will never cease growing and developing their own skills. It is an arduous and intensive process, to practice control over one’s mental faculties, and very few can even use the basic elements. Be wary, be careful, be restrained as you study this text. When performed incorrectly, occlumency and legilimency can result in a lifetime of pain.”

Groaning, Harry tossed the book onto the bed. He’d rather _not_ think about all the various ways he could die or hurt himself. Without reading, though,  he wasn’t sure what else to do. He wasn’t tired, and there wasn’t much to do in his small bedroom. Petting Hedwig and looking out the window, he saw the sun sinking behind the rows and rows of identical houses; the sky was tinged orange and pink. A young child was wheeling around on a tricycle in his front lawn across the road, squealing with delight while his mother looked on. And there was a large, knobby tree, its branches stretching out into the last of the sunlight—leaves were just beginning to bud, a spattering of green. Its shadow thrust out across the ground, and in the shadow… There was a dog.

With a start, Harry looked directly into the eyes of Sirius Black. The dog’s mouth was open, tongue lolling out one side. Its eyes were bright and crinkly. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think it was a friendly, family dog—but he did know better. He ran to his bed, pulled the knife out from under his pillow, then dashed to the stairwell. Throwing open the front door, he ran down the sidewalk to the street, and saw: nothing.

The child and his mother were walking back into their house, tricycle abandoned in the grass. The sky was fading to purple and blue. Under the tree, there was naught but weeds and mulch.

Harry was jerked back by his shirt, hitting Uncle Vernon’s chest. “What the devil are you doing?” his uncle hissed. “Get back in the house!” He shook Harry roughly and dragged him back inside, pulling him by the wrist of his injured hand. Using his other hand, Harry slipped the knife into his back pocket and then tried to force Uncle Vernon’s hand off him.

“Get off me,” he cried, wrenching his arm away as Uncle Vernon slammed the door behind them.

“I won’t have you running amok through this neighborhood, causing a scene and embarrassing this family!” his uncle roared. “You cause nothing but trouble! Running out the front door and looking crazy—what do you mean by it? Trying to make a fool out of us?”

“No,” Harry said. “I was—I thought I saw something, and—”

“The next time you see something, stick to looking at it through your bloody window! Otherwise, we’ll just have to board you up, so you won’t be tempted.”

“It won’t happen again,” Harry said quickly. “I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon, please don’t block the window. Hedwig needs out, and—”

“Don’t back talk me!”

“I wasn’t!”

For the second time ever, Uncle Vernon struck Harry across the face. The force knocked him backwards into the front door, head knocking against the frame.

“Get back to your room,” Uncle Vernon said, breathing heavily, face red and furious. “And stay there. Don’t come out ‘til morning, or you’ll be sorry!”

Harry didn’t wait for him to change his mind and escaped back up the stairs and into his room. He needed to go to the restroom and check his cheek, maybe get a cool washcloth to keep the swelling down, but he took his uncle at his word. He didn’t take a step out of his bedroom until Aunt Petunia woke him up the next day.


	21. Chapter 21

Neither the dog nor the voice returned until three days later, during which Harry had done his best to stay out of everyone’s way and acquire no further injuries. It had gone more or less okay and his body was no more bruised or damaged--his heart, however, was still heavy and raw. He was restless and irritable and desperately in need of a distraction.

He was weeding the front garden when he saw the dog, plodding happily along the road with a tennis ball in its mouth. It saw him, too, and began trotting towards him.

“Get away,” Harry said, standing quickly and stepping backwards. He didn’t have his wand or the knife; he didn’t have any defenses at all. “Stop!”

The dog stopped and sat back on its haunches. Harry stared. It wagged its tail. Harry kept staring. It dropped the tennis ball and nudged it forward with its nose. The ball rolled to Harry’s feet.

Could he have been wrong? Could this truly just be a stray dog?

He picked up the ball, which was wet with saliva, and tentatively tossed it in the air. The dog jumped to catch it but missed; the ball hit its nose and bounced back onto the ground. Holding back a laugh, Harry watched as the dog frantically pounced on the ball, picking it up in its jowls and shaking it; when the dog accidentally flung it from its mouth and then scrambled to catch it again, Harry couldn’t help but snort. The dog turned back to him, ears perked, eyes attentive.

“Are you safe?” Harry wasn’t sure why he asked, but seeing the dog play like this reminded him of the first night he’d seen the Grim. That dog had been warm, and comforting, and gentle—not anything like a mass murderer.

The dog cocked its head, ears flopping, and then nodded its head, looking far too human than a regular dog should.

“Are you Sirius Black?”

The dog nodded again.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

It frantically shook its head, eyes doleful.

Harry considered the dog—Black. He had no idea what to feel, but he was lonely. Finally, he asked, “Do you want to play?”

The dog thumped its tail.

And so, they played.

↠

‘ _I’m surprised, Harry. You really shouldn’t be that trusting of strange creatures._ ’

Harry ignored the voice, refocusing on his occlumency text. He’d tried a different one today and it was much less scary than the first; he hadn’t touched _Mastering the Whatever-Whatever_ since that first night, too anxious to confront all the possible deaths and disasters.

‘ _Reading won’t help you—I’d recommend practicing._ ’

“I am,” Harry ground out angrily. “Can I help it if I have a murdering asshole in my head?”

‘ _Yes, Harry, that’s the general point of Occlumency—to keep murdering assholes like me_ out _of your head._ ’

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He counted to ten, and then backwards to one. He exhaled.

‘ _Still here! Sorry._ ’

“Fuck. Off.”

‘ _My, Harry, are you always this rude to your guests? You were certainly kind to the mongrel this morning._ ’

“That’s different, that’s—”

‘ _I have a secret for you, Harry, if you’re willing to listen. But you have to give me something in return._ ’

“I’m not giving you anything, git. Get out of my head!”

Oops—Harry had yelled that a bit too loudly. A door in the hallway slammed open and angry footsteps made their way to his bedroom. His uncle’s fist pounded on his door.

“If I hear one more noise from this bloody room you’ll be back in your cupboard,” he yelled, thumping the door once more before walking away. Harry sighed heavily. He shouldn’t even be talking to the voice—he knew that; he wasn’t an idiot—let alone yelling at it loud enough for the Dursleys to hear. They already thought he was insane enough as it was.

‘ _Don’t you just want to hurt them sometimes? I could help you._ ’

“I’m doing fine on my own, thanks,” Harry said shortly. The voice chuckled, a kind of tickle that ran through Harry’s mind. He hated when it laughed.

‘ _I suppose you’ve given me something already, Harry: a friend. I do get lonely all on my own, you see—but now I have you. So, I will tell you my secret, if you’d like to hear it._ ’

“Do I actually have a choice?”

‘ _You always have a choice, dear boy._ ’

Harry didn’t say anything, instead gazing out to the night sky. It was almost a full moon.

‘ _The mongrel you’ve so foolishly decided to play with?’_  The voice paused, relishing Harry’s attention. ‘ _He’s not mine._ ’

“What does that mean?” Harry’s heart wasn’t beating properly; anxiety rippled through him as he considered the dog.

‘ _He was never mine. He didn’t betray your parents, Harry. I don’t know who he belongs to—a mutt like that must always belong to_ someone— _but his loyalty lies far away from my domicile._ ’

Harry thought of the knife, the Potter family crest fading back into its metal. He thought of everything he’d seen from his childhood memories; he thought of the kiss he’d seen between Black and Lupin, the way the dark-skinned man had looked at the werewolf—such open, earnest eyes. So much trust. So much love.

“They got the wrong man,” Harry gasped, the pieces clicking together. “It was the other one, wasn’t it? Pettigree? The one he killed?” He remembered the short, blond man in the photo album Hagrid had given him. Always on the outside of the group, desperate to belong.

‘ _Pettigrew, yes._ ’ The voice was pleased, oozing through Harry’s consciousness. ‘ _A loyal servant—even now._ ’

“Why would you tell me this? What’s your plan?”

‘ _Who said I have a plan? Dear child, have you never trusted anyone to simply be kind?_ ’

“No, not particularly. Especially not half-dead monsters who killed my parents.”

The voice hissed.

‘ _Call me by my name, Harry. No one likes to be called a monster—not even me._ ’

“ _Voldemort,_ then,” Harry said, barely managing to keep his voice from shaking.

‘ _Good, young one. Very good._ ’

“I’d like to go to bed now.”

‘ _Who am I to stop you?_ ’

His mind was empty. It was hard to describe; one moment, he had been bursting at the seams with thought and feeling and energy, too much for one body to handle. The next, it was just him inside his head, and it felt… _less_ than it had before. But Voldemort was gone.

Harry changed into pajamas, brushed his teeth, let Hedwig out, and climbed into bed. The wind whistled softly through the window, a cool breeze filtering through.

Staring up at the ceiling, Harry started working on some of the techniques he’d been studying before being so rudely interrupted. He imagined himself as a pebble, drifting along in the current of a river. He imagined the colors, the feel of the water on his skin, the murky underwater noises, the resistance as he caught on algae and logs, eventually being kicked back into the current. A small fish tried to eat him, spitting the pebble back out. He passed a toad, croaking loudly through the air. He watched a bird dive down and catch its prey, carrying it off in its beak. The sun was going down. The water was getting darker, colder.

‘ _Goodnight, Harry,_ ’ the voice said. ‘ _Sweet dreams._ ’

↠

Harry woke to Hedwig sitting on his pillow, a scroll of parchment tied to her leg. It was barely 5 in the morning. Unfurling it and stroking her feathers in thanks, he began to read the neat, tidy print:

_Harry,_

_Ginny told us you had left. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Ron is being… well, if you really were our friend, then you know exactly how he’s being right now. I tried to tell him off, but I couldn’t stop him. He was just so upset and confused, I think. He didn’t mean for it to happen; he didn’t know how bad it was. But Harry—he told everyone._

_Well, not everyone. He told his brothers—but it was in the middle of the common room, and you know how fast news travels in Gryffindor._

_Everyone knows, Harry._

_I don’t know where you are or what’s going on—I don’t even know you at all, not really—but I wanted to warn you. The whole school knows that you’re trans now, and it’s only a matter of time before the media find out, I expect._

_I’m furious at Ron, and I think he realizes what a huge mistake it was. But he’s being his usual ignorant self and pretending he’s in the right._

_I’m so sorry, Harry. You trusted us with something and we ruined it. You won’t ever forgive us, I expect. I’d understand if you didn’t. But I do want to remember; I really do. You said we were your friends, and I believe you._

_Oh, also, here are my notes from the last few days of classes. I duplicated them for you so that you could study. Even if you’re not in class, you still need to keep up with your homework!_

_If you can, please write back._

_With apologies and respect,_

_Hermione Jean Granger_

Harry was numb. The letter fell from his hand onto the bed. Hedwig pecked at it.

He knew he was going to have a panic attack before he did—at least he could kind of predict them now. His throat stopped working. _Everyone knows, Harry._ Everyone? Everyone. Everyone knows.

He could never go back, not now _everyone_ knew he’d been lying to them. _It’s only a matter of time before the news finds out, I expect._ He’d be rejected, he knew it. The whole wizarding world would turn their back on him. The Weasley parents—oh God, they probably already knew, thanks to Ron and his brothers. They’d hate him. They’d let him into their house, into their family, and now they knew how disgusting and wrong he was. All of his teachers would be revolted, he was sure of it. Instead of being the boy who lived, he’d be a mockery, an outcast, a pariah. He’d have to move to the girl’s dorms. He’d be kicked out of school. He’d be sent to Azkaban.

In the distance, he heard someone knocking at his door. He heard a voice in his ear, telling him to breathe, but he couldn’t think anymore, let alone breathe. The world was spinning around him, everything blurring together, until finally, blissfully, he couldn’t see—or feel—anything at all.

↠

Snape was all too familiar with the way the Hogwarts news system worked. Gryffindors and Slytherins were by far the most gossip-prone, and they were also more likely to talk to Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws than they were to each other. So Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws became the middlemen between the two houses, sending gossip back and forth until everything got so mixed up and confusing none of it made any sense at all.

The most recent gossip, however, was undeniably true. Snape was one of the few who could actually confirm it as fact.

“He never told me,” McGonagall had said over breakfast, angrily stabbing her eggs. “I’m his head of house!”

“He didn’t tell any of us, Minerva,” Lupin said reassuringly. “I’m sure he had his reasons. Secrets are often important.”

“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you, Lupin?” Snape sneered, unable to resist. “What gossip might we learn about _you_?”

Lupin pinked, and Snape gave one of his most horrible smiles in return.

The children were no more mature than their professors. Snape saw Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood all yelling at Ron Weasley as they entered the Great Hall—so he was the rat. How perfectly, disgustingly predictable.

The Slytherins were in an uproar. Snape looked towards Draco, who was usually in the center of the gossip mill, spurring it on with imitations and antics; surprisingly, he was calm and composed, seemingly uninterested as he chatted quietly with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. Interesting.

“How do you propose we progress, headmaster?” Pomfrey was asking.

“Unfortunately, young Harry is not here at the moment—which I’m sure many of the students have noticed over the last few days. I am certain this will blow over with time, as all innocent gossip tends to do in this fine castle. Let us see which way the wind directs us and proceed from there.”

That wasn’t exactly helpful, but Snape didn’t bother to say anything, instead exchanging a look with Pomfrey. McGonagall saw, and narrowed her eyes dangerously.

She accosted them later during their weekly tea.

“Did you know?” she demanded.

“Certainly not,” Pomfrey said, at the same time Snape said, “Obviously.”

“The one time you decide to be truthful, Severus!” Pomfrey, caught in her lie, was pink in the face.

“Why didn’t either of you tell me?”

“Honestly, Minerva. I know it’s a shock to you, but surely you understand the merit of discretion? I am not one to break confidences,” Snape said, calmly dipping his biscuit.

“Except when I’m involved, apparently.” Pomfrey sniffed indignantly, and Snape smirked.

“Well, I—suppose you’re right, Severus. But it is such a surprise! In my house, in my classes… and I never noticed! The poor boy—I do hope he’s alright. Dumbledore didn’t tell me much, just that he had a family emergency.”

“Oh, that’s what he told you?” Snape scoffed. “He’s right—if the emergency is that he has no true family to speak of.”

“I warned him the day they died," McGonagall said, shaking her head. "I can’t believe he lets the boy return to them each summer. Is his aunt sick?”

Pomfrey and Snape shared another look, and McGonagall glared. “Don’t you dare lie to me again, not over something this important. I’ll never make biscuits again.”

“Then what would we have with our tea?”

“Exactly.”

Gasping in mock horror, Snape relented and told McGonagall what he knew of the situation. Pomfrey hadn’t known everything either and listened just as raptly to his summation. He realized that, whether Harry or the headmaster liked it, these two deserved to know about the danger the boy was in. They were some of the only people genuinely interested in Potter’s wellbeing; it only made sense that they knew what help he needed.

By the end of his tale, McGonagall was aghast.

“He’s been living with all that? With… with _him_ inside his head?”

Pomfrey bowed her head sadly. “And now he’s dealing with it all on his own, the poor child. He needs a break—if only the world could grant him one.”

“He’s strong,” Snape said. “He’ll need to be stronger than this if he’s to truly vanquish him.”

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it, Severus? I thought he was _gone._ Vanquished already. To learn that he’s not… that we’re in just as much danger as we’ve ever been… it’s horrifying! And for that to rest on his small shoulders… I can’t imagine.” McGonagall, to Snape’s dismay, was tearing up. She was always so emotional—it wasn’t bad, he reflected, but it certainly made things more difficult in times of war.

“I reached out to a… connection,” he said, steepling his fingers and avoiding their gazes. “For information about his whereabouts.”

Pomfrey asked “Who?” at the same time McGonagall asked “And?”

“It took him several days to respond—no, I will not name him at this time, Poppy. My contact had been sent to Albania to find something. He would not be specific, but he is scared. He warned me to lie low. In fact, he begged me to hide with him and his family. To run away altogether.”

Pomfrey let out a small gasp. “So he’s coming back? He’s truly… he’s found some sort of power once more?”

Snape nodded.

“Will you hide?” McGonagall asked.

“I do not want to,” he said honestly. It was hard to talk of this, to be so vulnerable in front of them, even though he trusted them with his life. They had both saved him, in various ways, and he knew they would never intentionally injure him. But still—it was hard. “I feel… obligated to stay. To help, in whatever capacity that may be. I have made too many mistakes in this war to simply run away from it the second it threatens me.”

McGonagall reached out for him; he flinched, but took her warm, firm hand in his. “You still blame yourself?”

“Of course, Minerva.” His voice was small. “I know the part I have played. I know the sins I must pay.”

“We all have sins, Severus—that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve to be safe.”

He pulled back, shoving his hands into his robes. “I should prepare for class,” he said stiffly.

“Please, Severus—don’t go.”

His two friends watched as he stood abruptly from the table, turning away from them to hide his face.

“I am okay,” he said quietly, standing at the door. “I simply know what role I play.”


	22. Chapter 22

At exactly seven in the evening on Sunday, Snape rang the doorbell to Number 4, Privet Drive. He’d brought the boy’s assignments from the week. He’d also brought—though he tried not to presume he would need them—healing and nutritive potions. Potter hadn’t written anything over the course of the week, which led Snape to hope he was fine but assume he was not.

Dudley Dursley greeted him at the door, his arrogant, expectant look quickly turning to one of horror.

“Mum!” he squeaked. “Mum! He’s here!”

Petunia appeared behind her son, gasped, and quickly shooed him away. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Hello, Petunia,” Snape said. “I believe Professor Dumbledore explained in clear terms that I would be visiting each week to ensure the boy’s health?”

She snorted. “He may have said that—he said something similar the first time he left the brat on our doorstep. I just assumed he was lying again.”

Stifling his outrage for another time—the boy could have been protected in another world, could have been safe from unwarranted abuse and sorrow, if only Dumbledore wasn’t such a blindly optimistic fool—Snape swept in through the doorway. “We will be in the boy’s room for an hour or so. I will be speaking with you afterwards.”

“This is _my_ house!” Petunia said indignantly. He merely cocked an eyebrow and moved past her.

The boy’s door was closed, a dim light leaking through the crack. The locks that adorned its frame were all unlocked, though of course that could’ve been chance rather than habit. Knocking lightly, Snape waited for Harry’s faint voice before entering.

The boy was sitting cross-legged on the end of his rumpled bed, anxiously picking at the threads of his blanket. His occlumency books were by his side—Snape was pleased to see a few notes sticking out of the pages—as was an old photobook.

“Hello, Potter,” Snape said stiffly. He still wasn’t sure the best way to approach the boy, especially in this new territory. Harry seemed just as hesitant, keeping his head bowed and avoiding eye contact.

“’Lo,” he said softly, twisting the blanket tightly in his hands.

“How has the week treated you?”

“It’s been okay, sir.”

“Oh, really?” Snape wasn’t surprised by the boy’s deliberate lie, though he had hoped for a modicum of honesty. “No issues with your aunt and uncle? No issues with the Dark Lord? No issues with a certain secret being revealed to all your peers?”

Harry flinched, but didn’t say anything, keeping his head down. Snape grew suspicious, and approached the bed, bending to look into the boy’s eyes.

“Don’t!” Harry said quickly.

Snape pulled back.

“ _He’s_ here,” Harry said, and Snape saw now that his hands were shaking, the anxious movements a cover rather than a habit. 

“The Dark Lord?” Snape threw up the most severe of his mental defenses, overshadowing the strong fortifications he always had in place.

The boy nodded, face pale. “He wants to talk to you. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I should think not,” Snape said. He kept his voice as level as possible. “Have you been practicing your defenses?”

“Yes, but I don’t think they work very well on him. Most of the time he gives me tips on how to improve them.”

“Would you like me to help repel him? At least for tonight, so we may talk in peace.”

“You can do that? Without… I don’t want those potions again.”

“No,” Snape said, heart heavy in his chest. He regretted using the set of potions at all—ones he’d had to concoct out of necessity years before—and especially regretted it now, seeing the boy quiver with fear at the thought. “That will not happen again, Potter. There are other methods—you may have read of some—whereby one can temporarily extend their defenses to another’s mind. It is not dissimilar to legilimency, though it takes considerably more effort. We will need to establish a connection of trust and understanding. It will also require eye contact.” He strained the last bit, watching as the boy flinched.

“What if…” He trailed off, voice too quiet for Snape to hear.

“He will hear you either way, Potter.”

“What if he hurts you? Through me?”

“He cannot hurt me, Harry. The only reason he can connect to you is because your lives, your stories, are inextricably linked. You are mentally bound together. I am… I am not.”

“You _were,_ though,” the boy said, voice turning dark. “He said you were one of his.”

“Did he now?”

“He said you were a spy. He said your magic was dangerous—that you were, too. He said I shouldn’t trust you.”

Snape conjured a chair. He conjured some tea. After a thought, he conjured some biscuits, too, and summoned the potions from his robe.

“Take these,” he said, nodding towards the potions. “Purple is healing, black is nutritive. For your cheek, your hands, and your overall health. And any other injuries I haven’t detected.”

The boy stared, then took them, grimacing at the taste. He hastily took some gulps of tea afterwards, trying to wash down the concoctions.

“I could have poisoned your potions, Harry. I could have poisoned your tea; I brew it myself, as you know. I could have killed you a hundred times over these past three years. I could hurt you as your aunt and uncle do. I could lie to you as the headmaster does. I could have skipped this meeting tonight, instead leaving you to fend for yourself. And yet, you drank the potions. You drank the tea. You have told me things few others know. You have trusted me this past year, and I thank you for that. Do you regret placing that trust in me?”

“No!” he said quickly. “I mean… I don’t think so. I don’t know what to think. It’s all so… muddled, and confusing right now. Everything feels like its been turned inside out and I can’t tell what’s right or wrong, what’s real or fake.”

“I can help make things easier to understand, if you allow me. I can give you some clarity.”

Tentatively, Harry nodded and lifted his eyes to meet Snape’s. They were dark, filled with pain and confusion. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept all week; it was likely that he hadn't.

Snape extended tendrils of thought into Harry’s mind, breaching his defenses as gently as possible. He could see where the boy had tried—remnants of a forest fire encircled his consciousness—and where the Dark Lord had ripped through his efforts, leaving him tattered and helpless. His forest felt colder than it had before, poisoned by something damp and dark.

‘ _You’re doing well, Harry—just a few more moments._ ’ Snape didn’t know why he’d spoken and felt idiotic. Offering comfort to the boy? That wasn’t his job.

Quickly, he began weaving together a firm cloak of light around the boy, replacing the forest fire with something calmer, sweeter. He knew the Dark Lord’s methods—something raging and dangerous like fire was already in tune with his mechanics, whereas something intangible, like feelings of hope, or warmth, or love, took longer for him to infiltrate. Thinking of blankets and meadows and tea, Snape fortified the defenses until he was sure the Dark Lord couldn’t return for a few hours.

Leaving a few tendrils of his own consciousness within Harry’s—he had to keep the bond intact for the evening—Snape withdrew, significantly weakened by the effort of sharing his consciousness between two bodies.

“Better?” he asked Harry, picking up his tea.

“I think,” the boy said. “I can’t feel him anymore, not really, but sometimes he does that to trick me.”

“At the very least, I will be able to feel if he attempts anything harmful while we speak: my consciousness will be affected before yours.”

“Thank you, professor.”

“I need to regain my strength,” Snape deflected, snapping his fingers. A plate of small veggie sandwiches appeared, and he picked one up. He did need to eat, that was true, but he also wanted to give the boy some space to put himself back together, sans evil bastard. “While I do, tell me about your week. Start with the injuries.”

Harry stumbled through some awkward explanations for his hands and face, eventually admitting that they’d been punishments—though he refused to say what for, only that he’d deserved them.

“I messed up,” the small boy said, awkward and uncomfortable. “It won’t happen again, though. It’s okay.”

Snape didn’t comment, choosing decorum over confrontation for the moment. There were enough issues at hand.

“I assume you’ve heard of Mr. Weasley’s colossal mistake this week, yes? How are you coping?”

“Coping?”

“Processing the sudden universal knowledge of your identity. Dealing with being outed by someone you consider a friend.”

“Oh. Okay, I guess.”

Snape stared at him, daring him to lie again.

“Fine, it was awful. Is that what you want to hear? I had a panic attack, and Aunt Petunia got mad at me for it, and Voldemort woke me up with a list of options for how to kill Ron all the way from here, and I’m terrified, and I hate being here but now I can never go back to Hogwarts ever again, so I’m stuck.”

“Why would you not be able to return to Hogwarts because of this?” Snape asked curiously.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Enlighten me.”

Harry grabbed a biscuit and bit into it angrily, hands shaking once more. “Because—because everyone knows, and they hate me, because I lied and because I’m gross and because I’m fucked up and—”

“Harry, stop.”

Harry stopped. To his great discomfort, Snape saw tears pooling in the boy’s eyes. He’d dealt with him crying once before and didn’t fancy round two. 

“You are not a liar, or gross, or in any way messed up because of this. Why would you think that?”

“I just am,” Harry whispered. “It’s what the Dursleys say, and I know it’s true. I’m not supposed to be like this. It’s disgusting.”

The boy's words rang through his memory, echoing back to nearly two decades prior. He had been a boy himself, then, thirteen and no idea what to say. This time, maybe he could say the right words.

“You are not disgusting. You are not unnatural. You are not anything the Dursleys have ever said you are. Being trans is not _bad,_ Harry. It is simply a part of you, another aspect of yourself. Like your scar, or your untidy hair, or your uncanny knack for getting into Quidditch accidents. It may take longer to get used to and to accept, but do not _ever_  allow anyone else to make you feel bad for being yourself.”

Harry looked as shocked as Snape felt by the sincerity of his words. He justified his ridiculous _niceness_ by hoping it would prevent further episodes of tears and emotional vulnerability—he was just being Slytherin. 

“Does everyone… what is everyone saying? At school?”

“Ms. Granger is furious at Mr. Weasley and has refused to help him in any of his subjects—his grades have taken a significant dive, and I’ve had to give him three detentions this week because of his abominable classroom conduct. Ms. Lovegood, as far as I’m aware, has not stopped being absurdly indecipherable and off-kilter. Professor McGonagall is upset you hadn’t told her, but more upset that you are dealing with this on your own and that she isn’t able to help you at the moment. The general populace was in quite an uproar the first morning but has since calmed down and moved on to other items of interest, such as Oliver Wood’s rumoured third nipple and Mrs. Norris, who was seen consorting with another cat on Friday evening. Put simply, you are not the wizarding world’s only fixation at the moment and should not be so bigheaded as to believe that you are.”

“They don’t hate me?” If it hadn’t been for the boy’s earnest anxiety and fear written all over his face, Snape would have laughed.

“No, Mr. Potter, they do not hate you. I will not lie to you—being trans is no more familiar to wizards than it is to Muggles, and there are many stigmas and discriminatory notions that you will have to face. Most people, particularly those who do not know you in person, will say some incredibly inane and stupid things. Some may even judge you negatively for your identity. But you are not hated or mistrusted or abandoned. Your friends, peers, professors—they have not written you off because of this. Most of them are more concerned with the fact that Sirius Black is still after you.”

“Oh,” Harry said, smiling shyly and looking calmer than he had yet that evening. “That’s good, then.”

“You don’t seem at all afraid of or enraged by mention of the mutt anymore. Why is that?” A shifty, fidgeting child is never one to be trusted, and Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy’s lack of immediate response. “Out with it,” he said.

“I kind of, uh… played fetch with him and now we’re friends?”

Merlin’s saggy left tit. Harry Potter was going to be the death of Severus Snape.

↠

Snape was not such a fan of Harry’s decision to trust Sirius Black, whom Harry’d taken to calling Grim again in light of his ominous animal form. He warned Harry not to trust anything Voldemort said—which was fair advice, of course—and that just because he was surrounding by morally questionable people didn’t mean he should seek friendship in one of the slightly less evil one.

Harry didn’t bring up Snape’s own disreputable morals, knowing that would only start another long conversation that made him feel itchy and uncomfortable. Instead, they talked about Harry’s occlumency practice and went over his notes from the first chapters of his books. They talked more about Harry’s injuries—Snape seemed insistent on finding out what Harry had done but seeing as Harry wasn’t quite sure himself, he avoided saying anything—and how his relatives were treating him: fine, not terrible, could be worse, has never been much better, not many other options. They talked about Voldemort and the conversations they’d been having—Harry absentmindedly mentioned that it was at least nice having someone to talk to and Snape glared daggers at him and told him in no uncertain terms that the next time he wanted to talk to someone he could write a damn letter.

“I had a panic attack when Hermione told me about Ron,” Harry had said. “And he… pulled me out of it? Kind of? I passed out, but when I woke up and Aunt Petunia was yelling at me, he distracted me and talked it out with me. Re-centered me. It’s like he’s… not trying to help me, really, but he tells me useful things. Gives me advice.”

“Advice that will lead you straight to your death, Potter. Don’t be an idiot.”

They talked about why Harry’s defenses weren’t working, and what he could do to improve—it didn’t seem like Snape was all that confident in his advice, though he recommended Harry switch defensive mediums and recommit to ignoring Voldemort, rather than encouraging him.

“Listening to him will only goad him—he’s an egotistical maniac that thrives on attention, much like yourself.”

“I just feel so alone here, professor.”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t want you to leave Hogwarts, you daft boy. Occlumency is comparable to the Patronus—another skill you have not been able to accomplish. You must be in tune with your emotions, able to find sources of positivity and light within your memories. You must understand your own consciousness and come to peace with it. And that is exceedingly difficult when you’re a thirteen-year-old boy with no one to talk to except an evil, intangible soul residing inside your head!”

Snape had left soon after that, entering Harry’s head once more to remove his wards. Harry felt their absence as soon as they were gone—his head ached and felt heavier than before, more difficult to wade through.

He’d heard Snape talking to Aunt Petunia in the hallway. He couldn’t hear all the words but heard enough to know Snape was threatening her with mortal peril if she didn’t treat him well. That was nice of him, he thought vaguely, even if it wouldn’t do any good.

↠

 

Though Snape had just been there, the next day Harry found himself missing the company. Now that he’d been around another wizard—another human who tolerated him—he felt even more miserable at the Dursleys. When Grim showed up in the yard, Harry was almost happy to see him.

“Hey, boy,” he greeted the mutt, up to his elbows in dirt and begonia bulbs. “How’re you today?”

The dog came up to meet him and nuzzled his shoulders. Harry scratched behind his ears, smiling as Grim panted happily.

“Did you have anything to eat today? Me neither.” He patted the dog on his head. “Maybe I can steal you some bread or something. Might be stale, but you’ll survive.”

He went back to planting, knowing he couldn’t be late on his chores today or there’d be hell today. Grim kept nudging his shoulder.

“I have to work, Grim! I’m sorry—I’ll try and play soon, okay? I’ll get in trouble if I don’t finish today.”

Grim whined piteously, and Harry spared him a sad look. “I want to play too, boy, but I gotta work hard. I’m not exactly doing this for fun.”

Eventually, the dog meandered away, and Harry fell back into the routine of his task, ignoring the strain in his shoulders and the ache in his chest. Within an hour, though, the dog was back, carrying a plastic bag of what looked like… Chinese takeaway? He looked quite pleased with himself, tail wagging cheerily, and set the bag down next to Harry in the dirt.

“Where did you get this?” Harry scolded, opening up the bag. There was a box of fried rice, a chicken cashew mix, and egg rolls. “Thank you, Grim, I—Thank you. This is really nice. You probably shouldn’t steal, but I appreciate it anyway.”

The dog grinned.

“Do you… do you want to share? It can’t be fun to eat like a dog all the time. We could go inside, if you want, so nobody sees you. You just can’t get anything dirty, or Uncle Vernon will kill me.”

The dog cocked its head, looking wary.

“I won’t hurt you or anything. I don’t know… Snape says I’m picking the least of my immorals or something, I didn’t really understand it, but you seem okay and I’m lonely, I guess. I reckon if you were gonna kill me you would’ve done it by now. And we’re kinda alike aren’t we? Lonely. Alone.”

Grim blinked slowly, and then padded over to the door.

“It’ll be quick. Just a short break, and then I have to work again.”

Feeling very mixed emotions about what he was doing, Harry set down his trowel, wiped his brow, and got to his knees. Picking up the plastic bag of takeaway, Harry opened the door to the house and let the dog slip inside behind him.

↠

Seeing Sirius Black in the flesh wasn’t nearly as scary the second time, Harry realized.

A dog had followed him inside the kitchen, but when he’d turned to close the door, a man stood there instead.

His hair was just as long and unkempt as his fur, with what normally would have been waves turning into thick mats and tangles of curls. His skin was pale and waxen, tinged yellow by sickness. His eyes were weary and dark, as if he hadn’t slept in well in twelve years. His clothes were ragged, tattoos peeking through. He looked every bit the deranged villain the news made him out to be.

Beyond that, though, Harry saw other things: his smile lines, pinching the corners of his eyes with years of pranks and fun; his ears, one pierced with a small shiny stud; his nose, dotted with thick freckles that reminded him of Ron. Even his tattoos weren’t so scary—sure, some were knives and teeth and wolves (sentimental, much?), but there were flowers peeking through—knapweeds and ox-eye daisies and lilies of the valley—and Harry was sure if he had time to look at all of them, he’d find many more beautiful things. He also saw how Sirius held himself: slumped, caved in, arms clutched around himself, feet stepping side to side. He looked a lot like Harry did when he was uncomfortable or anxious, and Harry felt a wave of pity towards the man. When was the last time he’d talked to a human being? Probably the last time he’d talked to Harry.

“Proper introductions,” he said calmly, setting the takeaway on the counter and busying himself with plates and such. “I’m Harry Potter. I think you knew me as a different name—that’s not me anymore, and I hope that’s okay. I like Quidditch and friends and I’m very bad at chess.” He was careful not to look at the man, instead gesturing to a stool at the counter and letting him take his time to sit. “Would you like some water?”

The man made a small sound in the back of his throat, which Harry took to mean ‘yes.’ He poured two glasses and set them down, side by side. He divvied up the food between the two plates, making sure to give the man quite a bit more than him.

“If you just want to eat, that’s okay. You don’t have to talk.”

Really, Harry wasn’t afraid at all. If anything, he just felt sorry for the man in front of him, who—after waiting until Harry began eating—clumsily picked up his fork and began shoving the food down his throat. Normally, Harry would have made a joke, but decided not to say anything about the man’s manners; after all, he knew what it was like to never know where your next meal was coming from.

Black had finished his plate before Harry was even done with half of his and was chugging down his water. Harry filled a pitcher and brought it over for him. “Do you want the rest of mine as well?” Harry asked. “I’m full already.”

It was true. His small stomach had filled quickly with the rich food and he was quite happily stuffed. Black brought his eyes quickly to Harry’s, darting away just as fast. Harry dumped his food onto the man’s empty plate and went to the cupboard, trying to find some old biscuits or something that the Dursleys wouldn’t miss. He found a half-eaten box of stale jaffa cakes and grimaced; he hated them, but Black probably wouldn’t mind. He tipped some out onto a plate and set them on the counter. Then, at a loss for what to do to set the man at ease, he turned the telly on and focused his attention on the mid-day news, which was semi-interesting at best.

A few minutes later, he heard a small cough from beside him and jumped; Black was standing next to him, holding his now empty plate and water glass.

“Oh, you can put those in the sink. I’ll do the dishes before Aunt Petunia gets home.”

“Thank you,” the man rasped, and Harry smiled at his turned back as he moved to set the dishes down.

“I know what it’s like to be lonely and in need of a friend,” he said. “Even if they might kill you.”

“I wouldn’t!” Black said hoarsely. “Never, Le—Harry.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I know now. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you the first time.”

“You’re too nice,” he said. “Should be more careful.”

“I’d rather be nice to people and get hurt than be mean to everyone and be alone, I think.”

“Smart kid.”

“Would it be okay if we talked for a bit? I mean, like we are now?” Harry blushed. “Aunt Petunia won’t be back for another hour or so, and I’d like… I mean. If it’s okay with you.”

Black looked at him, eyes questioning. With a small smile that ripped open a scab on his lower lip, he nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that. I didn’t introduce myself before, like you did. I’m Sirius. I was one of your dad’s best mates, and I never, ever, ever wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” Harry said softly, smiling.

“How?”

“Er… someone told me. And then it made sense. It was Pettigrew, wasn’t it?”

Sirius’ face darkened, eyes filled with rage. “Yes,” he said, voice choked. “The rat bastard. I’ll kill him, Harry. I’ll protect you, I swear. I’ll get him.”

His voice was shaking, as were his hands. His breath quickened, thick with anger and all sorts of emotions Harry could only guess at.

“Breathe,” Harry said, feeling a bit like the adult in the situation. That was okay—even adults had to break down eventually. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Sirius breathed, but still looked a little too angry and wild for Harry’s comfort.

“I like your tattoos,” Harry said. “What do the flowers mean?”

Sirius’ eyes widened, and a smile broke out on his face. “You’re… exactly like your mum,” he huffed in what was almost a laugh. “Anytime I’d freak out, she’d distract me just like that. Always throw me oddball questions, like the name of the last street I’d been on, or the first birthday present I’d ever got, or something like that.” His emotions were bright on his face, torn between rage and nostalgia and love and sorrow. Harry imagined he looked much the same.

“I have pictures of them,” he said. “If you want to look?”

They spent the next while flipping through Hagrid’s photobook, and Sirius—when he wasn’t crying or stonily silent—would tell him stories about his parents. How James had shown up to their first date with a bouquet of tulips because he thought they were lilies. How Lily had told Remus she was pregnant before she told James—and James had been angry about it for weeks until they got the ultrasound. How James’ mum had thought he was in love with Sirius all through school and didn’t believe him when he told her he was engaged to Lily. All sorts of stories, all of them happy and funny and free of worry. No mention of the war or Voldemort or Peter—as if he hadn’t been there at all.

When Harry finally said goodbye to Sirius, giving him the rest of the jaffa cakes and asking him to come back the next day, his heart felt warm and full. It was aching, just a little, but he welcomed the feeling. If he had to trade a little sadness to get to know his parents, he would face the pain any time.

He had a small smile on his face for the rest of the night, much to Dudley’s annoyance, who’d gotten a notice for his bad marks and couldn’t watch telly as punishment. Even when his cousin tripped him, and he fell flat on his face, Harry was still happy, surrounded by a small bubble of warmth and memories.

Voldemort didn’t talk to him once that night.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

_Hi Harry,_

_I know you haven’t responded to my last letter and might not want me to contact you, but I had to try. You’re right to be angry and upset, but I still feel I should talk to you._

_I’ve been talking with Luna and Ginny the last week or so. They’ve confirmed everything you told Ron and me—did we really do all those amazing things with you? I can’t imagine being that brave or strong._

_Ron feels really bad, by the way. He needs to apologize and admit what he did, but instead he’s just isolating himself and being really annoying. I’m trying to help him, but he gets on my nerves. His rat’s missing, too, and he thinks Crookshanks killed him—it’s hard to be his friend when he yells at me the moment I talk to him._

_End-of-year exams are on their way; have you been studying? I wonder how that will work, seeing as you’re not at Hogwarts right now._

_I shouldn’t pry, but where are you? What’s going on? Probably I don’t have the right to ask that—you don’t have to answer. I’m just worried about you. None of the professors have even acknowledged you’re gone: they’re just acting like everything is fine. Hopefully, everything really_ is _fine._

_Luna misses you a lot. She’s doing okay—Ginny and I have kept a close eye on her, because some seventh years have been picking on her lately—but she talks about you a lot and cries sometimes. She’s worried._

_I think I remembered something. Small, but something nonetheless. Why were we in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom together?_

_Best wishes,_

_Hermione Jean Granger_

↠

_Dearest Harry,_

_I miss you so much! Ginny convinced me to write you a letter, even though I never know what to say when I write._

_All the baby birds are learning to fly lately. It’s quite beautiful._

_Professor Snape is acting rather silly—he seems distracted and confused lately, and sometimes he forgets to pretend to be mean. I’m sure it has something to do with you. What did you do to him?_

_Draco keeps trying to talk to me; it’s rather funny, really. He seems sweet. I think he misses you—though not as much as I do._

_I hope you are blooming brightly, wherever you are._

_Every night, the forest dreams of you._

_Luna_

_P.S. I tried to draw the mooncalves for you—I’m afraid they look more like aubergine._

↠

_Mr. Potter,_

_I trust this letter finds you well. I am truly sorry I did not get a chance to see you off; everyone here in Gryffindor misses you and wishes you the best._

_I’ve attached information regarding your Transfiguration exam. While your contact assures me that he will deliver the proper materials, I thought it best to send a personal envoy as well, just in case he’s less than transparent in his instructions—as he is wont to do._

_Given our physical separation at the moment, please complete the enclosed questions using your textbook, your in-class practice, and your own internal knowledge and judgement. I will evaluate you based on your analysis and thought process as well as your factual knowledge—you will need to be prepared beyond a textbook understanding._

_Potter, I apologize for my distance in the past. I hope I can become someone trustworthy, someone you feel comfortable confiding in if need be._

_You have a support system here at Hogwarts. We are waiting for you when you return._

_Kind regards,_

_Professor M. McGonagall_

↠

_Potter—_

_Where the fuck did you disappear to? Are you off to St. Mungo’s to finally get your big head reduced?_

_I’ve been practicing chess and I’m much better—I’ll destroy you the next time we play. I’ve realized that sometimes the king is still on the board, even if you can’t see him. He’s just surrounded by pawns, willing to sacrifice them before himself._

_Do you think pawns can switch sides? I might prefer your king._

_Hurry up and write back or I’ll think you’re a pussy for ignoring me,_

_Malfoy_

_P.S. Looney keeps trying to talk to me lately. She’s really annoying._

↠

Harry flipped through the growing pile of letters on his desk with growing anxiety. They’d accumulated over the last few days. It wasn’t that any of them were bad, necessarily, but with each letter he didn’t respond to, the more difficult it was to even begin. What was he supposed to say? _Hi, Luna, I’m doing fine just making friends with a dog-man who has more anxiety than me. Oh also Voldemort talks to me most days and I don’t really hate it as much as I should. Good luck with exams—have a great summer!_ That wouldn’t cut it.

The easiest one to answer was Malfoy’s, mainly because it had been so vague and small that Harry could say whatever he pleased. He didn’t want to, though, and instead bored holes into the parchment until he went cross-eyed.

Why did he feel lonely when there were people who clearly cared for him?

‘ _You’ve never been able to trust people, because too often you’ve been greatly disappointed._ ’

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Harry said, stabbing his quill into the ink bottle and splattering the desktop with black ink. “Like I didn’t know that already.”

‘ _Sometimes reminders are useful, dear Harry. How is our favorite potions master?_ ’

“He’s fine.”

‘ _No other details to share?_ ’

“He pulls you out of my head for a reason, I’m pretty sure.”

‘ _Ah, but Harry, if I truly wanted I could simply reach out and find the memories myself._ ’

“No, you can’t,” Harry said, grinning with satisfaction as he felt Voldemort’s snaking consciousness stab a solid wall. “I finally learned something!”

‘ _Very good, young one!_ ’ Voldemort sounded far too pleased for being blocked. ‘ _I’m glad at least our Severus is able to help you in such dire times._ ’

Harry ignored him, refocusing on the parchment in front of him. _Dear Draco,_ he started, and then stopped. Dear Draco? What sort of shit was that? Ripping the top of the parchment, he tried again. _Malfoy—_. That was better, though it felt like he was copying the way Malfoy had written. Plus, it was a little aggressive.

‘ _You could try a casual greeting,_ ’ Voldemort said.

“I’m okay writing this on my own, thanks.”

‘ _Then simply shut me out. Surely you can manage that?_ ’

“No, obviously not. Snape says it’s because we’re connected, or something.”

‘ _Intertwined might be a better word for it. We are bonded, bound._ ’

“Ick.”

‘ _I don’t disagree, Harry. However, I am choosing to make the best of it. Optimism will serve you well in the future._ ’

“I’m very optimistic you’ll shut up.”

There was silence, so Harry began to write once more:

_Hey Malfoy,_

_Thanks for writing—I know it’s difficult for you to spell big words, so I won’t be offended you resorted to ‘big head’ and ‘pussy’ as your best insults. Maybe you could ask Snape for some better suggestions next time, though. He’s clever enough not to be a pawn on either side, I’m pretty sure._

_I don’t think you’d like where I am right now; there’s not a single wizard’s chess board in sight, if you catch my drift. I’m safe-ish, I guess. Remember Christmas? It’s kinda like that, except all the time now. My king thought I was safer off the board._

_Have you written your parents lately? Maybe they’d have some better chess advice than me._

_Luna’s cool—be nice to her. If she drags you out to the forest, let her! There are some nicer friends out there than the ones you’ve got at the moment._

_Harry_

He thought about adding his surname but decided against it. If Draco was willing to ask Harry for help—or advice, or support, or something—Harry was ready to be on a first-name basis again. _Friends_ was a bit much—Draco would laugh in his face if he suggested something like that—but if they were maybe tentatively on the same side of whatever was going on… that was a start.

‘ _Ah, a sweet spot for young Draco? His father will be pleased; he’s been trying to earn your trust since before first year._ ’

Harry’s heart dropped like a stone. “You’re lying.”

‘ _I rarely avoid the truth, Harry. You’ll find I’ve quite an earnest heart._ ’

“You don’t have a heart at all, bastard.”

Before he could second-guess himself, Harry rolled the parchment, tied it, and handed it to Hedwig. “To Draco,” he said. “Not at breakfast; when he’s alone.”

She hooted and nipped his finger before swooping out the open window. He watched her white wings flash in the sun as she flew until she disappeared over the houses and trees.

‘ _Trust truly is a predicament for you. Tell me, what about the Malfoy child gives you confidence?_ _He seems likely to betray you the moment he senses danger._ ’

“How would you know anything about his personality? You’ve been _dead._ ”

‘ _I have my ways._ ’

Harry laughed. “More like his father’s been out looking for you, hasn’t he? Draco said he just disappeared. Did he find you? Is that why you’re stronger?”

‘ _You flatter me, Harry; if you think this is strong, just wait until I’ve regained my body._ _I’m so eager to show you what all I can do._ ’

↠

“Voldemort talks to me.”

“Regularly?”

“Er, yeah. Like, once a day or so. Sometimes more. Sometimes he doesn’t shut up all day long.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just thought it might help. I'm messed up, too.”

Harry and Sirius were sitting on the back step, hidden slightly by the shrubs. He didn’t need any of the neighbors ringing the authorities because they’d seen a notorious mass murderer nearby.

Sirius had been anxious that morning and took a while to change from his dog form. It was easier for him to cope when he was an animal, he said. Harry felt something warm and hopeful blossom to know that Sirius was trying to be human for _him._ He wanted to help him somehow, give him some respite from everything he had to deal with.

“When I’m human… it’s easier to hear their voices. Your mum and dad. And Remus. Peter, too. All the memories. They haunt me, Harry,” he’d said a few days before.

It had taken a little bit for Sirius to master Harry’s name, but now he said it as if it was the one he’d always had. They hadn’t talked about gender or anything like that—Harry was happy to let the issue slide as long as Sirius was. He’d read the news, after all, scrounging it from bins and whatnot. They didn’t need to actually say the words, to say that Harry had betrayed his parents after everything they’d given him. The guilt gnawed at him—but it didn’t need to be said. They had both betrayed Lily and James in different ways.

“What do you do to ignore their voices, Sirius?”

Harry, too, had taken a while to master the man’s name, but now it fit comfortably in his mouth, something warm and safe that he could say. It meant friend, and family, and all sorts of wonderful things.

“Not much,” Sirius said dully, scraping his foot in the dirt. “Most of the time… I guess I just wanna hear them, you know? Even if they’re yelling at me, blaming me for everything, it's better than not hearing them at all. It’s what I deserve. So I don’t try to shut them up.”

Sirius wasn’t really an adult, not where it counted. Really, the man was stuck back at twenty; Azkaban had stolen so much of his life. It was so unfair.

“I think I’m the same. With him, I mean. Sometimes it’s… sometimes he feels like a friend. Like someone I should listen to. Even if I know he’s evil and terrible and whatnot, sometimes I don’t want to block him out; I’d rather hear what he has to say. Is that wrong?”

“It’s not wrong,” Sirius said, meeting Harry’s eyes—it was a rare occurrence, and Harry knew to take him seriously when he did. “It makes sense. You’re a kid, Harry, and he’s taking advantage of you. That’s not your fault; I get why you’d wanna listen to him. But you _can’t_. That’s how he got my brother.”

“Regulus?”

Harry had heard the name just once, during one of Sirius’ moments where he wasn’t sure what time he was in. It wasn’t that he was crazy, he just… struggled sometimes. The dementors had done something terrible to him.

Well, maybe he was crazy, but Harry reckoned he was too, and figured that craziness wasn’t as scary as people always made it out to be. It was something he understood, now. People were just different sometimes; some people hurt a lot more than others.

“Yeah.” Sirius swallowed thickly, eyes dropping back down to his knees. He looked just like a kid, hunched over himself on the stoop next to Harry. “Voldemort got to him before he was even out of school. Made him believe all sorts of things. We didn’t… we didn’t have a good family, you know? A good home. And so when _he_ came along, Regulus wanted so bad to believe in what he said.”

A good family. A good home. What a difference those things made.

“What… what happened?”

Sirius didn’t speak for a few moments, instead grabbing a clump of grass and slowly pulling the blades apart.

“He died.” It was barely more than a whisper. “Died thinking I hated him, died alone and cold and broken. I don’t know how. Or why. Or even when, just that. Well—there’s this tapestry in my parents’ home, with all our names on it and stuff. And one day, I looked at it and, and, and he was faded. Dead.”

“I’m so sorry, Sirius.” Harry leaned his head on Sirius’s shoulder, feeling as if he was falling through a dream. He hated how much pain there was in the world, how much sorrow everyone around him had to feel. He thought of Regulus, and Luna’s mum, and his own parents. They were all lost to the people who loved them.

“That’s why you can’t listen to him, Harry. No matter what he says. He’s lying. He’s doing whatever he can to break you.”

“Yeah. I know. Snape’s helping me out; I think I’m getting better at blocking Voldemort out thanks to him.”

Sirius’s head snapped up once more, eyes burning. “ _Snape?_ ”

“Have I not mentioned? He’s the potions professor. He’s kind of—well, I dunno what he is really. But he comes and teaches me stuff, I guess.”

“Don’t trust him Harry,” Sirius said furiously. “He’s a death eater, through and through. That slimy bastard gave us all hell through school—especially Lily. He called her… he called her a you-know-what. How can you even stand to be around him? He must loathe you.”

Harry thought about it for a moment. Though he was shocked to hear Snape had called him mom a slur, he didn’t think it was that atypical of the man. It was more or less predictable—that didn't make it right, but...

“He’s nice to me, most of the time,” he said finally. “He took me away from the Dursleys last summer. He teaches me ways to protect myself. He lets me cry and talk about whatever I want. He doesn’t insult me nearly as much as he used to. He’s never hurt me. He makes me drink awful potions and he yells at me when I’m doing something stupid and he makes fun of me sometimes, but I don’t think he’s evil.”

As Harry spoke, he realized how true the words were. Their relationship wasn’t built on kindness or love or friendship, but there was something strong there that Harry didn’t have a name for yet but was tentatively growing used to. 

“He’s rotten, Harry. The darkest sort. I’ve half a mind to talk to him next time he comes ‘round here—”

“No, Sirius! You have to be careful! He’s not dangerous, not to me, I promise. Voldemort warned me about him too, and I asked him about it, and he said—”

“You’re going to trust Snivellus over _me_?” Sirius was on his feet now, towering over Harry, his voice dark and threatening. Harry couldn’t help it, not after being back at the Dursleys for so long: he flinched.

“It’s not like that,” Harry tried to say, looking up into Sirius’s shadowed face.

“Yes, it is! James and Lily trusted the wrong person and they’re _dead!_ They’re dead, Harry. This is how you repay them? Trusting a man who hated them?”

Harry’s voice was shaking, but he tried his best to be calm. “Sirius, I—” But before he could finish, there was no one left to talk to. Instead, a dog was sprinting from the yard, leaving the small boy feeling more alone than ever on the stoop.

↠

_Hi Hermione,_

_Thanks for writing twice. Sorry I didn’t respond sooner. I’m just really busy here and got side-tracked._

_No, wait—I shouldn’t lie to you. Not telling you things is what got us into this mess, I think._

_I was really upset when I got your first letter. I had a panic attack (I have those a lot). I was so scared to write back and every time I thought about it I just got so upset._

_It’s not your fault that Ron told people—you aren’t in control of him. I’m not mad at you. Or him, really. I know what he’s like when he gets upset, he forgets impulse control. And honestly? I expected a worse reaction. That secret was so terrifying and I held it in for years because I thought everyone would abandon me if I told them the truth. So I’m glad that you haven’t. Thank you, Hermione._

_You asked about the girl’s bathrooms… We were brewing Polyjuice, remember? We tried to infiltrate Slytherin by being Crabbe, Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode. You kind of turned into her cat. You made a really cute cat, but you weren’t too happy about it. Does that ring any bells?_

_Good luck with your exams and everything. Only a week until they start, huh. You must be cramming like mad. (I haven’t started!) Don’t overwork yourself!_

_I hope you remember stuff soon. I really like being your friend._

_Love,_

_Harry_

_P.S. Do you think I should try and write Ron? I miss him._

Harry felt a bit stupid saying “love” in a letter—especially to a girl—but he _did_ love Hermione and wanted her to know. He wished he could be back at Hogwarts with her, or better yet, back at Diagon Alley, adventuring in the sun and sweat of summer.

Sirius hadn’t come to visit that morning, and Harry had felt adrift and alone in Number Four. After his chores, he dedicated himself to writing all his letters he needed to. Maybe depending on Voldemort and Sirius Black for his sources of conversation _was_ a little dangerous.

_Dear Hagrid,_

_How are you?_

_I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. I miss you!_

_I hope Buckbeak is doing well and enjoying his new freedom and not-death! Give him a ferret for me._

_What’s the best way to fix a dog’s fur? Like, if it’s matted and dry and stuff? There’s a stray dog where I am and it needs cleaning something awful._

_Miss you loads; hope you’re well,_

_Harry_

He didn’t expect Hagrid to write much more than a few sentences—he wasn’t the best with holding small writing tools in his big hands—but missed the man and wanted him to know he hadn’t forgotten about him in his absence. Plus, it’d be nice to clean Grim up; he desperately needed a bath and grooming.

_Dear Luna,_

_I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. I think about you and the forest all the time, I wish I could be there with you now. Or, better yet, maybe we could go swimming in the lake. It’s almost warm enough! We could bring Ginny, too, and maybe Draco if you get along. Can you imagine him with a sunburn? All that white, white, white skin._

_I’m safe here at the Dursleys, but I’m not very happy. They aren’t very nice._

_Remember the dog that I was looking for? Turns out, he’s Sirius Black. But he’s not evil! He’s actually really nice, just sad and confused sometimes. He doesn’t like Voldemort at all. (But you can’t tell anyone, okay? I don’t want him to get in trouble.)_

_Other than him, I don’t really have anyone to talk to right now, except Snape when he comes by every weekend. Well, and one another person._

_Remember in the hospital wing when you were talking to Dumbledore? You said something that makes me think you might already know, something about two people leaving Hogwarts, not just me. It’s Voldemort. He’s in my head. When he tried to kill me, our souls got connected or whatever, and now he just talks to me all the time! That’s why I had to leave, because Dumbledore knew I’d be a threat to Hogwarts and the other students._

_It’s pretty miserable, but is it weird if I say it’s not all bad? He’s not… the worst, I guess. Well, he is, but. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain! What did you mean by what you said in the hospital wing?_

_All my love,_

_Harry_

_P.S. Say hi to Ginny for me! This letter is more or less for her, too, considering how inseparable you are._

↠

Snape’s least favorite part of his week was visiting Surrey every Sunday. He’d come to loathe every part of Number 4, Privet Drive, incensed by its perfectly manicured gardens and empty, dustless shelves—all tended by one overworked child, of course. Greeting Petunia’s bony face each evening revolted him. Climbing the steps to the boy’s shabby room revolted him. After his visits he showered himself in cleansing and comfort spells, desperate to remove any trace of the filthy house from his body.

The dark energy he’d first noticed under the stairs was still there, though not any darker. His suspicions that the boy had slept there before were unconfirmed—Harry refused to discuss anything to do with the Dursleys in more than noncommittal vague statements about his health.

“I’m fine,” he’d always say, and Snape wasn’t yet willing to prod beyond that.

Darkness also shaded the gardens, all the beautiful blooms overcast by an energy that sewed anger, resentment, destruction. It was a miracle they didn’t shrivel and die immediately after being planted.

As much as he loathed the trip, however, he did not loathe seeing the boy.

Harry had a quick wit and a mass of earnest questions that caught him off guard more often than not. It distraught Snape to see the boy grow wearier each week, more and more overwhelmed by his house and his co-habitant. The Dark Lord was taking a toll on the boy, even if he himself didn’t notice it. Harry claimed to not mind his presence, to find it almost relaxing at times—that worried Snape greatly. It always started like that, the silky admiration and affection turning rapid-fire into seduction and coercion. The Dark Lord could make the world fall just from the power of his voice.

This week, the boy had been more or less okay, despite the burn marks near his wrists—“cooking accident”—and the scrapes on his elbows—“tripped on the paving.”

“I made Sirius mad,” he said cheerily, legs folded on the bed, ignoring Snape’s gaze in favor of pulling loose strings on the bedding. “He’s like you—he wants me to be safe and ignore Voldemort and whatnot. But he _really_ hates you.”

Of course, the mutt would prioritize old school grudges over his godson’s health and security. “So he scampered, did he? Typical.”

“What’s the deal between you two?”

“I was poor, I was a Slytherin, I was unsociable. He and your father were rich, Gryffindors, confident and handsome, popular amongst all their peers and professors. They had no qualms pointing out my weaknesses nor exploiting them for everyone to see.”

“They bullied you?”

Snape nodded in assent, face stony.

“That’s… I don’t like that,” the boy said angrily. “They would have bullied me too, probably. That’s so cruel. I’m sorry they did that to you.”

Snape was shocked and fumbled with what to say next. Harry had _apologized_ to him?

“It is in the past,” he said stiffly, repeating words he’d said months before about Harry’s mother, when he’d first taken him from this bloody house. “It is not your burden to bear or your grudge to hold.”

As he spoke, Snape realized the truth of his words. He’d treated Harry unfairly for his first few years at Hogwarts, judging him on the qualities of his father rather than his own merit. _He_ would hate to be compared to his father—why had he thought he could do that to someone else?

“Still,” Harry said, “It’s not fair they hurt you like that, and you just had to deal with it. Didn’t anyone get them in trouble? Didn’t… I mean, obviously everyone hates Sirius, but how come my dad was still so respected? If he was so bad?”

“Lupin tried to corral them during their school years. Your mother, as well, did her best to defend me. I was not the sole recipient of their ‘fun,’ but I did receive the brunt of it. Unfortunately, I was also least-liked by the professors—sans McGonagall, who was always quite fair—and not prone to tattling on people who humiliated me. The situation was not easy all around. I am not without blame or responsibility.”

Harry’s face was conflicted, full of confusion and regret.

“I do not mean to mislead you, Potter,” Snape continued, hoping the boy would understand. “Your father was not a saint. He was not perfect. But ultimately, he _was_ a good person. He grew up, eventually. By then, we were pitted against each other so heavily that even if I had been in a position to listen to him, I doubt that James would have apologized. Black, too, would never have apologized. I would not expect him too. At the time of your parents’ deaths, I was… not aligned with them in their beliefs. Black, who has been absent these last twelve years, does not understand my current position.”

“You were a death eater.”

“Yes.” Snape dipped his head, hair falling into his eyes. He did not like his past, but he had learned to live with it—most days, at least. “I was led astray. That is why I _know_ the power of the Dark Lord’s sway. That is also why I cannot blame Black for hating me, for believing the worst.”

Snape hadn’t expected such a heavy conversation that evening, though they weren’t uncommon with the Potter boy. He was growing weary, exhausted by tiptoeing around topics Harry wasn’t ready to hear—or that he himself wasn’t ready to discuss. His head hurt, and he sent up a mental prayer that Harry wouldn’t ask too many more questions.

“He talked about his brother,” the boy said quietly. “About how he fell in with Voldemort, too, and got killed because of it—but no one knows how or why.”

Snape stiffened, heart stuttering for just a moment. “Did he,” he said flatly. This was the opposite of what he’d wanted.

“Yeah, and he would’ve been a few years behind you both, right? Did you know him? Do you know what happened to him?”

“I knew him. That is enough, Potter. We don’t have enough time to relive all my glory days. Have you been tracking your dreams lately? Let’s examine those and move to occlumency before I must leave.”

Harry groaned in defeat, but grinned and pulled out his journals anyway, leaving the rest of his questions for another day.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter of the first part of this story! It will more or less resolve in the next chapter but honestly the last however many words have just been a build up for fourth year. Oops.

It was officially exams week. Harry wouldn’t get his exams until Tuesday or Wednesday, but he was nervous for them nonetheless—he’d never been all that great at studying textbooks, preferring to learn by hand, which wasn’t possible this time. The morning after Snape visited, Harry resolved to crack open his books as soon as he finished his chores. Fortunately, he only had outdoor work to do and would finish up quickly.

A little after lunch, Grim padded his way into the garden with his tail between his legs. Harry greeted him eagerly, whistling him over and scratching between his ears.

“I missed you, boy!” He ran his fingers through his fur, wincing as they snagged on some mats.

The dog whined at him, eyes sad and pleading. “I’m not mad,” Harry said kindly, working a tangle apart. “I understand that you get overwhelmed; I do too. I just want you to understand that I trust you _and_ him. I think he’s different now than how he used to be, just like you’re different from how people think you are. He’s safe, I promise.”

The dog wagged its tail, propping it brightly in the air instead of between his legs like before.

“Do you feel okay to talk to me today? No? That’s okay—how about a bath instead?” Grim panted, tongue lolling happily. It was hot that day, and Harry knew a cold, sudsy wash would be super relaxing. Along with a short letter full of cheer and happy news about Buckbeak’s adventures, Hagrid had sent a whole grooming kit for Grim, complete with a clearly hand-carved brush (with unicorn bristles he’d harvested himself), shears, and a blueberry-scented shampoo that Fang apparently went mad for.

Laughing at Grim’s eagerness, Harry pulled out an old mini pool that Dudley had frolicked around in as a toddler and turned on the hose.

Spraying Grim and chasing him around made Harry happier than he’d been in a long time. By the time they were finished, his feet were covered in mud and grass, his shirt and pants were soaked through, and his cheeks were flushed with sun and cheer. After playing, Grim had flopped lazily into the kiddie pool, letting Harry wash his fur and painstakingly trim away all the mats he deemed too helpless to try and untangle. It involved a lot of tummy rubs and scratches to keep him happy. Anytime Harry accidentally pulled too hard—plus the one time he got too close to the skin with his shears—Grim would whine pitifully and he’d have no choice but to pet him until he was satisfied.

“Isn’t this nice? I always feel better once I’m clean,” Harry said, nattering on as he worked. “It calms me down, I think.”

In response, Grim snorted and thumped his tail, splashing soapy water over the side and spraying Harry.

When they were done, Harry found some rags in the shed and used them to towel the dog off.

“Good boy,” he said when Grim was all dry, rubbing behind his ears. “You know, I love dogs and don’t mind at all when Grim visits, but I like Sirius, too. Maybe he can come visit tomorrow?”

The dog raised a paw and Harry knelt to hold it. Grim nuzzled into his chest affectionately, and Harry accepted the hug happily, leaning into the warmth of a friend.

That was the moment when he heard Aunt Petunia’s familiar shriek cracking through the air.

“Get that dog out of our yard!” she yelled, running towards Harry with a broom raised above her head. Her purse was still on her shoulder, her heels were still on—she must have gotten back early from the shops. “Out! OUT!”

Startled, Grim tread backward, eyes alarmed.

“You better leave, boy,” Harry said worriedly, thinking fast. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

With a slight nod of its head, Grim bolted away through the shrubs and away from Aunt Petunia’s wildly-swinging broom.

“YOU!” With the dog away from her home, she turned to Harry, eyes drawing in the rest of the scene. The kiddie pool full of soapy water. The wet clumps of fur strewn across the yard. “Explain yourself!”

“I—it’s just a stray that comes around and I wanted to help it and—”

“Absolutely not! I can’t believe your nerve, stealing from us and making such a mess! You have no right, girl!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly. “I promise I didn’t steal from you, it was just a mistake—”

“This is no mistake,” Aunt Petunia screeched. “You think I’ll believe it’s just an _accident_ you happened to cut all the cur’s fur off? The pool dragged itself out of the shed and filled itself with water? Don’t take me for an idiot!”

“No, I wasn’t, I—”

“And if you didn’t steal from us, you stole from someone else. A neighbor? Do you want them to hate us? Do you? You’re destroying our reputation, and I won’t have it. How long has this been going on? You attract all the trash and wastrels don’t you—just like your parents. I should never have expected any better, but I put my foot down with this mess.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry tried again, but she blustered past him.

“Not sorry enough! You will be, though, once Vernon sees what you’ve done.”

“No!” Harry said frantically. “I’ll clean it up, I swear, I was going to clean it up before you got home anyway—he doesn’t have to know.”

“You won’t clean _anything_ up, girl. You can stay right here and dry off until he gets back from work. He’ll see what you’ve done.”

“Please—”

Aunt Petunia turned away from him, ignoring his pleas. She slammed the back door behind her, and Harry heard the lock click shut. Miserably, he looked at the mess around him. He really hadn’t thought it out at all, had he? Normally he was so careful, but he’d been so swept up in the joy of the moment, the sun shining brightly over the two of them, that he’d forgotten to worry about his family, forgotten to wonder how he’d clean everything up in time. How would he have gotten rid of all that water without them noticing, even if he _had_ had time? He’d been such an idiot.

Groaning, he sunk to the grass and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands.

There was no other option but to wait for Uncle Vernon to return. Harry didn’t know what to expect—likely something that could more or less heal within a week, considering Snape would be back.

The sun seemed to move with his thoughts, vanishing under a layer of gray clouds. The air thickened with the promise of rain.

Harry sat, and he waited.

↠

When Uncle Vernon finally got home, it had been raining for at least an hour. Harry was soaked through and shivering. He watched his aunt and uncle talk through the window, both of them turning to look at him and the kiddie pool next to him. Most of the evidence was gone because of the rain, but Aunt Petunia’s story was still there.

Apparently, they seemed to think letting him stay outside in the rain was good enough a punishment, because they vanished from the window and didn’t return for quite some time. Harry imagined them sitting together in the dining room, all laughing at his expense. Well, he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it this time. He ought to have known better—it was his fault for letting his guard down.

After a while, the back door opened just a crack, light flooding out.

“In,” Uncle Vernon barked, and Harry, not wanting to risk him changing his mind, dashed to the door as quick as he could. His uncle didn’t let him in, though, instead forcing him to stop right before the door. “Your aunt tells me what you’ve got up to,” he said angrily.

“Yes, sir. I’m—”

“I didn’t say you could talk.”

Harry stayed silent, the apology dead on his lips.

“You’ve been a nuisance these last few months, even though we were so generous and good-hearted to allow you back. After all you’ve done, you’d think you’d remember the basic rules of respect in this household, but _no._ Instead, you go and soil the yard with some flea-ridden, disease-carrying mutt that could have ruined the whole garden. You steal from our neighbors and tarnish our image. Well, I’ve had enough.”

Harry opened his mouth, but just as his aunt had earlier, his uncle kept on talking.

“We can’t kick you out—they’ve made that much clear—but we have to do something to teach you a lesson. Get in.”

The door opened wider, and Harry slipped inside, looking down at the pool of water collecting at his feet on the linoleum. “I’m sorry,” he said nervously.

“Shut up. Get over here.” Uncle Vernon grasped his wrist and pulled him down the hallway. Meekly, Harry followed, wincing at all the dirt he’d brought inside. They’d make him clean that up in some horrid, time-consuming way.

He didn’t notice at first that Uncle Vernon had stopped in front of his old cupboard. His uncle wrenched the door open and gestured inside.

“Uncle Vernon, please,” Harry said. “Please, I’m sorry.”

“You’ll either learn your lesson or you won’t, girl. If you can’t respect this household, then this is the only place for you to stay.”

Harry tried to resist, but Uncle Vernon moved behind him and shoved him forward roughly. Stumbling, he fell into the small, narrow cupboard. Before he could get his bearings, the light vanished as the door shut.

“I’ll let you out once I’m satisfied,” his uncle said through the door. “Behave like a child, get treated like a child.”

Harry was caught between pleading once more and reminding Uncle Vernon that children weren’t often locked away in small rooms. He settled for saying nothing.

A key clicked in the lock, and heavy footsteps fell away from the doorway.

Harry was alone in the dark.

↠

The cupboard was smaller than Harry remembered, and he had to fold his legs in to fit on the small cot on the ground.

In the last three years, it had acquired a pile of dust bunnies and a canopy of spiderwebs. Uncle Dursley had also thought it fit to cover the thin slots through which light filtered through, leaving only the crack at the bottom of the door as a light source. A light was on in the hallway but shut off after an hour or so—the Dursleys had gone to bed.

Cold and miserable, Harry fell asleep to the sound of thunder and the chill of his clothes against his body, soaked-through and frigid.

When he woke, the Dursleys were gone. The house was still—they’d left him for the day.

Harry’s heart was beating too fast; he could hear it in the dusty silence of the room, ringing through the air and filling his ears. He could practically feel the blood pulsing through him, disturbingly aware of how present his body was in this moment. How _trapped_ he was. How awfully lonely his life was.

It had always been like this, hadn’t it? He was always the shameful thing to be hidden away. He had spent his whole life in the dark, hiding his secrets, hiding his heart, waiting for someone to let him out. But no one ever came. Eventually he would see light again, but it would always be a bit dimmer, clouded by the knowledge of the darkness he’d existed in before. He would never be clean again, never bright and shiny like his friends were.

‘ _Stop moping._ ’

Harry flexed his hands, open and shut, feeling the dig of his nails into his palms, the stretch of his fingers as they extended. He breathed, long and deep. He counted slowly and thought about stretches of forest inside his head, the forest Snape had shown him on his last visit. Lush and green, mossy and vibrant. Full of frogs and crickets and all sorts of chirping, creeping things.

‘ _So you’re in a dark room. You’re stuck. At least you still have a body to be stuck in. Imagine living as a rotting half-body, a broken soul. You have nothing to complain about._ ’

“I’m not talking to you.”

‘ _Yes, you are, Harry. That’s what words are, dear boy. This is a conversation._ ’

“Go away.”

‘ _Would you prefer to be alone?_ ’

Harry would very much prefer _not_ to be alone in there—or to be there at all—but he wasn’t going to admit that. Instead, he focused on doing what Voldemort liked most: asking him questions.

“Is that what you are, then? A broken soul? How did that happen?”

‘ _Don’t you remember? You destroyed my body nearly fourteen years ago, Harry—what a short memory you have._ ’

“But how could you have come back then? How come you didn’t die?”

‘ _I work in mysterious ways, sweet child. Sometimes a soul need not be all in one place. Don’t place all your eggs in one basket, as they say._ ’

Harry, piecing things together, said, “So you… split your soul into pieces somehow, so that even if your body was killed, you could still survive—just in a different form.”

‘ _Very good, Harry, very good! What an astute and clever boy you are. Such a pity your talents are wasted on things like living in cupboards and following Albus Dumbledore._ ’

“I’m having the time of my life,” Harry said, ignoring the fresh rush of not-good feelings to his head. “What are you up to?”

‘ _Reacquainting myself with old friends. Do you miss your friends?_ ’

“Yes. Who? Malfoy’s dad?”

‘ _My, aren’t you intuitive. He’s been quite useful._ ’

“Who else?”

‘ _I think you know, Harry. Prove your worth._ ’

“Pettigrew’s on his way to you. He hid in the Weasley’s as Percy’s and Ron’s rat. He was the one who betrayed my parents. He’s been serving you since finishing Hogwarts.”

‘ _Very good, Harry. You know so much, don’t you? What else do you know?_ ’

“I know you’ve got a plan to get your body back. I reckon it involves me—that’s why you’re always talking to me. Getting to know me. Trying to sway me to like you. I know you prey on vulnerable people, usually teenagers, and manipulate them into believing your lies. I know you want Dumbledore dead. I know you want to restart your cool gang of Death Eaters or whatever. I know you’re not as insane as everyone thinks you are but you’re also a little crazy in different ways. I know you had a bad childhood like me and everyone else who’s like us. I know you could be good, if you tried. I know that you don’t want to try.”

There was a long pause. Harry wasn’t sure what that meant—had he said something wrong? He tried to feel every part of his body without touching it, a meditative technique from his occlumency books. He felt a spider crawl over his left foot. He didn’t move past his ankles before Voldemort spoke once more, slippery and sleek.

‘ _You are truly a wonder, Harry. Dumbledore is wasting you in this cupboard._ ’

Harry tried to feel his shins, bones against taut skin. His knees, knobby and thin. It wasn’t working very well.

‘ _You could be amazing. You could stand with me, yes, or stand on your own. I would not stop you from making your own kingdom. Your potential is crisp and clear, Harry. You, who have already become more than any child—a girl, become a boy; an abused thing, become a confident pupil; average with only your mother’s magic to thank for your life, become a seer, a telepath, a parseltongue, a gifted wizard with yet more abilities to be discovered for. You could go so far._ ’

“I’d rather be normal. Thanks for the offer, though.”

‘ _You would waste your life letting muggles and fools control you? You would let Dumbledore keep you in the dark for the rest of your years?_ ’

“No—being controlled doesn’t sound very fun. But I think I can find another option than becoming a power-hungry megalomaniac.”

‘ _What a many-syllabled word. Did our Severus teach you that?_ ’

A thrill of anger ran up Harry’s spine, pooling around his neck.

“He’s not _your_ Severus.”

‘ _Ah, but you feel he is yours? Have you grown so attached?_ ’

In the dark of the closet, Harry paled, suddenly chilled. Was that how he felt about the potion’s professor? “He’s just my teacher,” he said feebly. “But I know he’s not really a death eater. He doesn’t want you back.”

‘ _You will not listen to me? I could get you out of the cupboard, Harry, before it’s all too late._ ’

“I’ll try my own luck, thanks.”

A low buzz rang through Harry’s skull, an angry horde of wasps charging through his thoughts.

‘ _I’m sorry you could not find reason. I will simply have to show you._ ’

“What does that mean?” he asked, but all was silent and still, as if it had only ever been Harry in his head, alone in his cupboard under the stairs.

↠

Hours passed. No sound from Voldemort. Not even a flicker of attention. The light under the door grew dimmer as evening set in. Harry’s stomach rumbled half-heartedly—it was used to being ignored.

Thanks to the combination of being ashamed to use public toilets and being locked in rooms for long periods of time by the Dursley’s, Harry didn’t need to pee yet. He hadn’t had much to eat or drink that day. He was thirsty, though, lips dry to the point of splitting. He kept licking them, only for the mild relief to fade quickly, intensified pain taking its place.

He focused on his self-assigned task: counting the squares on the old quilt he lay on by feeling their edges. Definitely more important. Super engaging. He wished Voldemort were there. He wished Sirius had come over and noticed he wasn’t there. He wished Snape was coming to visit today.

↠

Harry didn’t notice when his clothes finally dried, but after a while he stopped shivering.

Then it was morning again—light streaming in through the crack. The Dursleys had been gone for over twenty-four hours.

His stomach was aching. He had a headache that stabbed through his head intermittently. His hands and feet were perpetually cold. Limbs kept falling asleep—he had to shake them awake in the cramped space.

Harry tried to study, going through all the information he could remember from his textbooks and notes, whispering certain parts out loud. It was Wednesday—the owls for his exams would arrive soon. What would they do when no one was there to receive them?

A loud knocking startled Harry, who jumped up so quickly he hit his head on the low ceiling. The sound was distant, more likely coming from the back door than the front.

“Harry?”

That was Sirius’ voice, low and firm like black coffee.

“Harry, are you there?” He knocked again, rapidly in quick succession.

Harry tried to yell out, but his voice was broken from disuse and even when he did manage to speak, he wasn’t sure Sirius could hear him.

“Harry?” More knocking.

“Sirius!” he tried to yell. “Sirius! I’m locked in!” His voice cracked on the last word, sounding weak and scared. He beat the door with his fist and he could it hear it shake against its many padlocks.

There was silence. Nothing happened. Harry waited with bated breath for the sound of an alohomora, a window breaking, a man’s footsteps—anything, but there was nothing at all. Sirius must’ve decided he wasn’t home. Harry gave one last slam against the door for good measure, and then slid down to the floor, rocking and shaking as he cried.

↠

Eventually, Harry fell asleep again, feeling dirty and desperate, overcome by mental and physical exhaustion. Maybe tomorrow morning instead; yeah, they just decided to stay over with Aunt Marge or something. They’d be back tomorrow: they’d let him out.

His dreams were black and dark and full of spiders. When he woke up and opened his eyes, he couldn’t tell if he had actually been dreaming at all.

The next time Harry was fully conscious, there was a light flickering under the door, like a lamp going out.

“Uncle Vernon?” Harry called. “Aunt Petunia? Is anyone home?”

There was no answer, but sometimes they ignored him just to scare him. Just to trick him.

“Dudley? Are you there?”

Silence. The light continued to flicker, yellow and orange. Harry felt hot. He was sweating. The air was thick, and he struggled to breathe.

“Calm down,” he whispered to himself. “You’re having a panic attack; just breathe. You’re okay. You’re safe. They’ll be home soon. A light just turned on all on its own. You’re fine.”

He tried to inhale deeply but instead hacked up a dry cough that made him double over. He ran through all his calming exercises. He tried occlumency, imagining a huge wall of fire around him, protecting him from his anxiety.

It didn’t help much.

Instead, the heat overwhelmed him; he felt salt drip down his lip, crease the lines near his eyes. He was suffocating. Frantically, he beat against the door, shoving his weight against it.

“Help!” he screamed, voice hoarse and rasping. “Someone, please! It’s not funny—let me out!”

There was no sound from outside. His panic was drowning him. It felt like his imagined fire had become real, like the house was on fire around him. He could even hear the crackling oxygen, the roar of the flames. He knew it wasn’t real, knew he was just having a bad panic attack, his fears exploding beyond his imagination—but he couldn’t

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I’ll never be bad again, please! Please, please let me out.” He was wailing by then, breaths frantic and heavy. It felt like smoke was pouring into his veins, smoldering through his bloodstream. His head grew dizzy and light, and the world spun around him. He sunk to his knees, unable to stand any longer.

There was a distant thumping, too far away to be of any use, and then a crashing noise that sounded nothing like a fire. The tinkling of glass, the jarring thump of a door being shaken from its hinges. A voice was yelling his name.

Harry didn’t have the energy to call back. His panic was a fire, thick and sweet, broiling in his bones. “I’m sorry,” he whined, not loud enough to be heard over the rushing in his ears. “I’ll be better, I’m sorry, please.”

There was a loud crash of noise in the house, followed by a large amount of cursing. He pulled his hand up to try and beat against the door once more.

“Help,” he moaned, hardly more than a whisper. “Help me. Please.”

Someone was yelling outside his door. His vision was covered in stars.

“I can’t find him, Snape! He’s in the house, I felt him!”

Harry’s hand fell limply from the wood, fingers twitching as the last of the fresh air left his lungs. He was still conscious, but his body wasn’t cooperating.

“Hominum revelio,” hissed someone else, and Harry felt rather than saw a bright aura sweep around the closet. “He’s in here—the bastards locked him in.”

A sprig of hope blossomed in his chest, aching and burning as it was. Heat was licking his body. How had he ever thought fire could be a comfort?

The door to his closet cracked straight down the middle and was roughly heaved away. A gust of heat washed into the room. There were two blurry figures standing over him, blocking the red and orange light from behind them. Harry was suddenly embarrassed that they were seeing him like this—trembling and crying and afraid in a tiny room. What would they think of him now they knew what he truly deserved? What he was worth?

Harry lost consciousness before he could apologize to the people for saving him.

↠

Snape had been grading the first-year exams when the Patronus arrived.

It was unfamiliar, a silvery wolf pup with a torn ear and bright eyes, but it bounded to his desk and skidded to a stop before crashing into it. Snape rolled his eyes in exasperation.  

“Message for Severus Snape,” it said in a voice Snape hadn’t heard in twelve years. “Of priority.”

“Well?”

“His house is on fire and I don’t know where he is. Help.”

Snape swore. He didn’t need to ask who Black was referring to.

“I’ll be there—don’t do anything foolish,” he told the pup, which disintegrated into a pile of ash on the floor.

Before he could even process what he was doing, Snape strode to the fireplace and flooed to his tiny house in Spinner’s End. Not sparing a glance for the rubbish-strewn room he stumbled into, he disapparated on the spot, landing just steps away from the barrier surrounding Number 4, Privet Drive.

He was met with a blast of heat and the furious sound of a raging fire. Flames were spitting from the front windows, curling around the siding and melting the gutters. He hadn’t known what to expect—he’d trusted Black to only call him in a crisis, but he’d trained himself not to overreact to vague messages over the years—and this was far more extreme than anything he’d imagined. The house was half-destroyed.

Black came sprinting from the back garden.

“Help,” he gasped, pulling Snape towards the back door. “The fire’s weaker here. I think he’s inside, but I don’t know enough about fires to get in safely.”

The mutt looked desperate, face streaked with dirt and sweat, eyes frantic. Snape had heard Harry’s tales of trust and friendship for Black, but he hadn’t fully believed them. Now, though, it was clear: regardless of the past, Black cared deeply for Harry. That was all that was important at the moment.

“Salvum caeli,” he said, and pushed the protective barrier he’d cast away from him and towards the house. It couldn’t protect the whole building, but he could stretch it far enough to save him and Black. He unlocked the door.

The heat that rushed out was hard to bear, causing both of them to raise their arms to block their faces. Black dashed in ahead of Snape, calling Harry’s name and running from the kitchen to the parlor.

When they finally found him, Snape knew it was already too late. Harry was curled next to the door, sweat drenching his brow, eyes rolled back into his head. His mouth was ajar, lips cracked and bleeding. Before Snape could move, Black pushed past him and knelt by the boy, pulling him into his arms.

“Hurry up!” the mutt yelled, jerking his head back toward the door, “Before all this caves in on us!”

Snape was paralyzed. The fire raged around him and yet his insides felt frozen. He’d failed. Lily, Dumbledore, Harry. Himself. He’d failed them all. He should’ve known, he should’ve fought harder against Dumbledore’s plan, he should’ve stolen the boy away himself.

“Snape!” A voice roared in his ear, and he shook himself awake. “Hurry the fuck up—we have to get out of here.”

Somehow, his legs started working again, and he stumbled out of the hallway just as a beam crashed down above their heads. He cowered, but nothing happened. Looking up, he saw the beam straining against his barrier, smoke and fire crowding in above their heads. Black, who had slung Harry over one of his shoulders, grabbed Snape’s wrist and half-dragged him from the house, kicking the back door open as he ran through.

Outside, a crowd was gathering. Neighbors lined the edges of the yard, peering over the fences to get a good look. When Black kicked open the door, there was a loud gasp from the crowd, and some even applauded, as if this was a fucking show.

Before Snape could catch his breath or even begin to think about next steps—for instance, where he could hide from Dumbledore, who would kill him for killing the boy who lived—Black stepped towards him, grasped his shoulder tightly, and spun.

The world twisted and turned in front of his eyes. He could hear the fire still thundering in the house, beams crashing down, and he could hear some of the muggles screaming, and he could hear his own heartbeat thrumming through his veins, and he could hear Black’s ragged, frantic breathing—and then there was silence. Everything was still.

The force of the Side-Along Apparition left Snape breathless and doubled-over. He collapsed to the ground and tried to regroup, tried to breathe and think and open his eyes and have a body the way he was supposed to. Isn’t this what always happened to the boy? ‘Breathe,’ he used to tell Harry, thinking it was easy. He’d been so wrong.

“Calm down,” a voice close to him said. It sounded like coffee, dark and warm and slightly bitter; Snape preferred teas, but it was still soothing. “Breathe. He’s alive. He’s not dead. Help him.”

Snape’s eyes flashed open.

“Not… dead?” he croaked.

“Not dead,” Black said. “But you have to help him. I didn’t call you for you to freak out on us.”

Snape could hear a breeze rustling through some nearby trees. The sky was blue and cloudless. The faint scent of honeysuckle flowered the air. He took in a guttering breath and turned to look at Black.

The mutt was filthy, stained with smoke and dirt and sweat. His hair was tangled and windswept, singed at the ends. His cheek was scratched and bleeding. He, like Snape, had collapsed to the ground. Black had the boy’s head in his lap, his hands wrapped protectively around the boy’s chest, but he looked absolutely helpless as to what to do next.

“He’s not dead,” the mutt said again, and it was clear that he’d been just as afraid as Snape. “You have to fix him; you have to.”

Snape’s wand was still in his hand from when he’d cast the air barrier—he was lucky he hadn’t dropped it in his panic. Hands trembling slightly, he cast a health tracking charm—one that he’d both used before and deflected from Pomfrey dozens of times—and watched as it traveled down the boy’s body. A red glow tinged his hands, his throat, and his chest, near where Snape thought lungs were.

“What’s wrong with him? What does that mean? What did you do?”

“Hush,” Snape said, too focused to come up with a stronger rebuke. “Get him some water.”

Black seemed to calm down with the direct command; he wordlessly summoned a glass and cast aguamenti. Gently—more gently than Snape had ever seen Black do anything—he touched the glass to Harry’s lips.

“We need to purify his lungs,” Snape said, thinking out loud. They were in a clearing with trees surrounding, but he couldn’t be sure there weren’t muggles just nearby. “Where are we?”

“Kielder Forest,” Black said, using some of the water to wipe Harry’s brow.

“Tourist area?”

“No. About a day’s walk from anyone.”

Good. Snape turned to the trees and began to cast.

“Accio mustard seed. Accio onion. Accio lungwort.”

The wild plants came swinging from the forest, zooming into his palms. Before Black could ask what he was doing, Snape had charmed them to be chopped, pulped, cooked, and cooled, leaving a mushy mess in the dirt. He tore the edge of his sleeve and used it to carry and apply the poultice. Now, he just had to wait.

“It draws out the smoke,” he said to Black’s questioning eyes. “Not as effective as a potion, but it will do.”

“Will that be enough?”

“His throat and lungs are damaged. He recently recovered from another throat injury; his healing may have regressed. It’s likely he won’t be able to speak for a while, but he will be fine. We can clear his system. That’s not the worst of it.”

“W… What is?”

Snape could hear the exhausted tremble in the mutt’s voice but didn’t have the energy to mock him. Besides, he felt essentially the same way. Instead of looking at Black, he cast cooling charms on all three of them and then leaned back onto his elbows, staring up at the sky.

“His body is severely malnourished at the moment. I don’t believe he’s eaten a full meal in weeks—he certainly hasn’t eaten in the last 48 hours. It’s debilitated his immune system and weakened his body’s ability to thrive. In tandem with the fire and what I’m assuming was a rather strong panic attack, he’s gone through a great deal of trauma. His mental health is most likely at a low point as well.”

“They locked him in,” Black whispered, and Snape ignored his own wince of pity at the man’s words. “They locked him in and then just _left him._ Who does that? I knew… I knew he wasn’t happy, I knew they weren’t the nicest, but I didn’t think…”

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” Snape hissed, but his voice didn’t carry its usual venom. He was just as culpable.

“What should we do next?” Black asked a while later. They had both been watching Harry, whose breathing was stabilizing. He still looked half-dead, but after his panic, Snape realized he had only ever been unconscious. His breathing had never stopped. He wasn’t dead; he wasn’t dying. The relief had yet to fully set in.

Snape looked to the sky. It had been a few hours and the sun had fallen quickly. It was behind the tree line, and the sky was tinted orange.

“I should take him back to Hogwarts,” Snape said, wondering why he hadn’t just done that in the first place. His decision-making skills had really taken a dive once he’d seen Harry’s body. “Dumbledore may not yet know of the fire—I’m not sure if he has any alarms set on the house. Harry can recover there.”

Black didn’t look all that happy about it, but he nodded. “You call him Harry,” he said—kind of a question, kind of not.

“Is that an issue?”

“No. I just… he tried to tell me about you, and I didn’t believe him. You seem alright.”

Snape blinked. Was this truly the time for schoolboy grudges to be solved? Maybe so.

“He said much the same to me about you, Black. Perhaps we both need to listen to him more. Is that why you called me—because of him?”

“Yeah,” the mutt said, bringing a hand to his hair and pushing it out of his eyes. “I couldn’t do it on my own, and I was panicking, and he hadn’t stopped talking about you since he first dropped your name—he never talked about anyone else, not Dumbledore or McGonagall or Remus or anyone. You were the first person I thought of.”

“I’m touched,” Snape said dryly, and Black laughed.

“Should we wait until he wakes up to move him?”

“No,” Snape said, rising to his feet and dusting the dirt off his robes. “I know someone in the village; I’ll summon Dumbledore from there, so that the boy doesn’t need to be moved too much.”

“I’m glad he’s okay,” Black said, looking down at the boy who was still in his lap. “Thank you. For coming and helping.”

“Thank you,” Snape replied, voice as stable and steady as he could muster, “for not being a mass murderer. What actually happened?”

Black paled and shrugged his shoulders childishly. “Maybe that’s a story for another night?” he said, quirking his lips and trying to look like it was all a good joke. “A night when Harry’s not knocked out and we haven’t just run through a burning house?”

“I’ll hold you to that, Black,” Snape said. “If you want to stop running, you’ll have to tell someone.”

Black didn’t respond to that, instead moving to a crouch and hoisting Harry up with him. He handed the limp body to Snape, who took him awkwardly in his arms. How are you supposed to hold the unconscious body of a boy you probably should hate but don’t?

“Get somewhere safe,” Snape said, “And owl Dumbledore. I’ll vouch for you, if it comes to it. Merlin knows you were always insufferably moral back in the day.”

Black laughed again, standing awkwardly in the clearing on his own. He hadn’t cleaned up since the fire, and still had dried blood on one cheek.

“Tell Harry I… Tell him to take care of himself.”

“As if he’d listen.”

With that, Snape turned on the spot, leaving Black to stare hopelessly into the darkness.


	25. Chapter 25

The symmetry, Aberforth thought as he opened the door to the sight of Harry in Snape’s arms, was rather remarkable. Beginning of the year, ending of the year. Things were happening over again, but so much had changed.

He ushered the grim-faced man in, searching his gaze for any hint as to what happened. None forthcoming, he turned and trudged up the stairs, beckoning Snape to follow him.

“Anything to drink?” he asked, pulling his favorite Scotch whisky down from a shelf in the kitchen. Snape flopped Harry down on the sofa rather unceremoniously, though he was still more gentle about it than Aberforth had imagined possible. He was bent over the boy, checking his vitals and applying what looked like a poultice to his chest. He didn’t even glance at Aberforth as he responded, focusing intently on Harry.

“Just tea, if you have any.”

Did the man never drink, or did he just not trust Aberforth? How bad would a situation have to be before he finally gave in and accepted a drink from him?

Aberforth set the kettle on and then went to the boy, crouching by the sofa. Harry’s hair had fallen over his eyes, and he brushed it away.

“Wha’s the matter with ‘im?”

“What isn’t?” Snape muttered. “He’s safe, now—that’s what matters. We need to call Albus.”

“My brother’s got no business with the boy if it’s that family that caused ‘im to be like this. I reckon he’s responsible, in’t he? We tried t’ stop ‘im.”

“Culpability remains to be discovered. Nevertheless, whether we like it or not, Albus will eventually need to be made aware of certain matters. It is almost definite that the wards on his relatives’ home have been demolished; he could not return there even if he wanted to.”

The kettle whistled, and Aberforth went back into the kitchen, busying himself with the tea. Snape looked exhausted and worn-down. He’d probably never admit it, but he was bone-tired and needed a rest. Smirking, Aberforth pulled out a chamomile blend—he wasn’t quite drugging the man, but close enough. Who else had ever had the chance to send the stern professor to bed with a nightcap?

↠

Harry’s head hurt.

That’s the first thought he had.

The afterlife smelled a lot like a sweaty pub.

That was the second thought.

He opened his eyes.

The only light was a dim lamp in the corner of the room, a muted yellow glow that cast deep shadows on the floor. Harry recognized the room—he was at Aberforth’s. He could feel the scratchy wool blanket that was wrapped around him, the thin pillows squished under his head.

Someone was curled up in the armchair across the coffee table from him. Their arm dangled to the ground, hand grazing the carpet. Their long, black hair covered their face.

Nothing made very much sense. He wasn’t sure how he got there or what had happened. He wasn’t sure of much at all, only that he’d thought he was dead but maybe he wasn’t, after all. His body ached, and he felt dirty and wasted—he didn’t think the afterlife was supposed to feel like that.

All Harry knew was that in the warm glow of the lamp, in the company of the familiar man breathing gently, under the blanket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and cinnamon, he felt safe. Protected. Comforted.

That was his final thought, before he drifted back into the oblivion of sleep.

↠

Snape hadn’t intended on falling asleep in Aberforth’s grimy home, but when he woke up to soft sunlight filtering through the window and an impatient phoenix Patronus standing in front of him, he realized what had happened. Damn the man for letting him succumb to exhaustion.

“Message for Severus,” the phoenix said, reminding him of Black’s Patronus the day before.

“Continue.”

“Where are you? Number Four in ruins; boy missing. Muggles saw. Come immediately.”

Snape swore.

“What’s that?” Harry’s sore, rasping voice was barely more than a whisper from the couch, but Snape heard it well enough.

“A Patronus, Potter,” Snape said. “A missive from Dumbledore. We shall need to move soon.”

Aberforth came wandering in from the kitchen with a pile of toast and a pot of tea—just a strong black, from what Snape could smell, but that was good enough.

“Sleep well, didja?” Aberforth had the gall to snicker; Snape glowered, but accepted the plate of toast and set it down on the coffee table. “Good to see you awake, kid. Jus’ like summer, in’t it?”

“Thanks, Aberforth,” Harry whispered, gratefully taking a cup of tea but avoiding the toast. Probably for the best, considering his throat.

They sat comfortably and ate for a while, not talking about the day before or much of anything at all. Snape had the distinct feeling that something in his life had changed in the last twenty-four hours. Just days ago, he had told McGonagall and Pomfrey that he knew what his role was—sitting in this room, he had no idea. He should have gone to Dumbledore last night, but instead he fell asleep. He should have been more careful jumping to Black’s message the day before.

He should never have met Aberforth at his pub last summer. He should have sent someone else, someone more capable of dealing with the emotional trials a thirteen-year-old child brought with him.

He should never have done a lot of things, like join Voldemort when he was still a teenager or betray his best friend and get her killed or blindly trust Dumbledore because he felt he had no other options or—and the list went on.

Now, he felt as though he was on the precipice of something huge.

Things were changing. The sticky heat and fierce storms of summer were looming, their presence promising a new season, a new life, a new world. Alliances were breaking. Truths were revealing themselves. Dangers were lurking behind every corner. Nothing felt familiar to Snape anymore, not even himself. Who had he become in the last twelve months? Who would he become in the future?

Eventually, the boy told them what happened. Wringing his hands, staring down at the worn carpet of Aberforth’s home, he told them what he could about his last conversation with the Dark Lord. Neither Aberforth nor Snape asked why he was locked in a cupboard.

“He said he’d show you something?”

“Yeah. And then he disappeared. And then, at first, I didn’t realize the fire was real. I thought I was just freaking out, you know? I do that sometimes. And then it was like my thoughts, fears, anxieties or whatever—they exploded out of me, became the fire. I guess. Do you know if that’s what happened? Did I cause the fire?”

Snape didn’t answer the questions, not ready to confront them. “When we arrived, the house was half-demolished. Where were your relatives?”

“I don’t know… They just left. A day or so before. Didn’t say anything—they were just gone.”

Snape pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. They could have just decided to go on vacation—he wouldn’t put it past them to simply forget Harry in a cupboard—but that seemed all too coincidental. 

“But when I was asleep, or unconscious, or whatever, he came back. Voldemort, that is. After the fire, after you pulled me out. He was in my head again, and we were in the forest—the one you’ve described in my head, professor. It was on fire.”

Harry stared at Snape with an odd look on his face. Snape couldn’t decipher it. Yet again, the world was changing in ways he couldn’t understand.

“He said… he said, ‘it’s time to rebuild, sweet boy.’ Like he did in that one vision—remember? And it felt like when you changed the forest, when you took out the trees, except a thousand times worse ‘cuz _everything_ was being destroyed. And then I don’t remember anything until I woke up.”

Snape nodded. Aberforth, to his credit, didn’t interrupt with any questions that would take ages to explain.

“I don’t understand what he’s trying to do,” Harry said frustratedly, putting his head in his hands. “He’s just toying with me, I think, but how can he do that? Did he cause the fire? How does that work? What is he going to rebuild?”

Both he and Aberforth looked to Snape, then, who’d been thinking deeply while Harry talked.

“I’m not certain,” he said slowly, conjuring a quill and parchment. “But I have a hunch.” It wasn’t a good hunch, both in that he didn’t have a lot to base it on and that if he was right—which he thought he was—it was bad news for all of them. He started writing, not yet showing it to either of them. He drew up a list of everything he could think of that connected Harry and the Dark Lord. Their wands were twins, they were half-bloods, they were orphans. Both born on the 31st, summer and winter. The prophecy—he didn’t write that one down, not yet ready to tell the boy. The visions. Harry’s scar.

Then, he jotted down everything he’d uncovered this year. Everything that didn’t make sense. Harry’s vanished childhood, gone from the wizarding world’s memory. His extremely potent accidental magic. His mental forests—the forests within forests, secreted off into different places. His ability to cast wandless, nonverbal glamours on himself since childhood, disguising his body. His general lack of cognitive stability. His mood swings. His rage at Dumbledore. His innate ability to conjure a defense of fire within his mind—but no other discernible talent towards Occlumency. His strong reaction towards dementors and inability to cast a Patronus. His statement when possessed—‘I think I killed someone… And you weren’t very happy.’ His strong reaction to the potions Snape had given him, potions Snape had tuned to extract Voldemort from one’s consciousness years and years ago. Granger and Weasley’s inexplicable amnesia during the boy’s temporary coma—he ignored the guilt of doing that to the boy; he’d explain eventually. Lupin’s disinterest. Dumbledore’s refusal to tell him anything.

What had he told Harry the night he’d caught him on the full moon? _Things are not always what they seem. It does not behoove you to jump to conclusions when you do not possess all the pieces._ Did he have the pieces yet? Could he truly make this conclusion?

“Aberforth—what do you know of horcruxes?”

“Not much ‘t all,” the man said. “Might’ve heard my brother and Gri-his friend mention ‘em once or twice. Why?”

“Let’s go see the headmaster,” Snape answered, taking a deep breath and folding the parchment into his robes. “I have a lot of questions for him, and he will be upset we have waited this long.”

“He can stuff it,” Aberforth grumbled, and Harry laughed, before leaving to clean up and get ready.

He came back into the parlor looking refreshed, wearing a massive flannel of Aberforth’s over his dirty clothes. His hair was as mussed and unruly as ever, and his eyes were full of sparks. Snape was relieved to see that he wasn’t permanently damaged by his latest venture into harm’s way—not physically, at least. He knew the boy’s bad habit of shoving traumatic events away from himself was not going to help him in the long run, but the conversation they were about to have with Dumbledore would be easier to handle if Harry wasn’t already mentally overwhelmed.

“Professor?”

“Hm?”

“Where do I go from here? I mean… There’s no way I’m going back to the Dursleys this time, right?”

Snape looked at the boy, just as short and skinny as he had been at the beginning of the year. Something about him was different, something large and significant. Was this what the Dark Lord had meant by rebuilding? If Snape entered Harry’s mind now, what would it look like? Would he be able to recognize him?

“No, Potter, you will not be returning to your worthless relatives. If we can track them down, I’ve half a mind to lock them in a house and start a fire—just to see what happens.”

The boy ignored his threat of violence. “But it’s almost summer, and I have nowhere to go. I could stay at Hogwarts, maybe.”

“I don’t think so, Potter—it’s not customary. Very few professors are even there consistently.”

“There’s another option, if it suits you,” Aberforth said, leaning in the archway to the kitchen and looking discomfited. Neither Harry nor Snape spoke, instead looking to him to continue. “I mean… I reckon with some help ‘round here, this pub could be a right competitor with the Three Broomsticks. Alls it needs is some new life, don’ you think?”

Harry choked. Staring at Aberforth with eyes just as bright as his mother’s, he asked, “Do… do you mean it? I could stay here? With you?”

Aberforth looked down at the ground. “Only if you want. I know it’s not the best; I’m no’ rich or nothin’. But I’ve goats an’ we could start a garden. There’s a back lot we could try an’ make presentable. If you want. You don’ have to do anythin’ if you don’ want to.”

“No, I want to! I’d love to! I’d—” Harry’s voice was still cracking from the strain on his throat, but his face was lit up with a massive grin.

“We can figure out details later,” Snape said dismissively, trying to ignore his mixed emotions over Aberforth offering his home before he himself had had the chance. “For now, though, we should go inform the headmaster of the last forty-eight hours. And then, Potter, I do believe you still have some exams to take.”

Harry groaned. “I thought you’d forgotten!”

Snape smirked and folded his arms in that way that made him look very professorial and authoritative—and not at all like a bat, no matter what Pomfrey implied. “Why, Potter, expecting special treatment just because you were trapped in a house fire and nearly died? Surely you know by now that I would never be so kind or understanding.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” the boy said, a matching smirk on his own face. “But at least I’ll get to see my friends once more before the summer—there’s always a spot more trouble we can get into before they go home.”

It was Snape’s time to groan, and Aberforth laughed, deep and throaty and bubbling. The energy was light and warm in the room, and Snape took a moment to appreciate the rare happiness trickling through his body.

Yes, things were changing, and he was too.

If the Dark Lord truly was returning, if Lucius had found something in Albania, if the death eaters were regathering, if Harry was a horcrux… then this happiness would not last. The war was returning, and Snape needed to be ready for it.

But if the Dark Lord could rebuild his life, if he could start anew after being dead for nearly thirteen years, perhaps Snape could, too. Harry had shown him that much this last year.

If the boy could still find ways to smile, and love, and grow, despite the horrible world he’d grown into—well, maybe there was hope for broken people like Snape after all.

“Come along, then,” Snape said, pulling his robes tighter around himself. “It’s a long walk to the castle.”

 

 


End file.
